A laugh escapes me, wet and shaky. “Yeah. It really is.”
“But really, though.” His voice is rough and matter-of-fact. “Why should you?”
I blink at him. “What?”
“Why should you be sad?” His hand stays in my hair, steady and warm. “Because they shared your blood? Because the men who terrorized you are dead and you think that’s supposed to break your heart?”
My throat burns.
“Your father sold pieces of you every chance he got and used Anna to keep you in line. Your brother put his hands on you.” His fingers curl against my scalp. “That’s not family.”
I can’t speak.
“If you’re sad,” he says, quieter now, “be sad for the girl who kept waiting for them to become something else. But don’t sit here and think you owe those bastards grief because you don’t.”
A hot pressure starts behind my eyes.
He’s right. He’s so completely right that it aches.
“How do you do that?” I whisper.
“Do what?”
“Know what to say when I don’t even know what I’m feeling yet?”
“Superpower.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “Also, I pay attention. You’re kind of my favorite subject.”
I lift my head to look at him. The bruises, the split lip that’s finally scabbing over, the way his left eye is still swollen half-shut. He looks like someone used his face for batting practice.
He’s never been more beautiful.
“I love you,” I tell him. “I know I said it in the warehouse, but you were bleeding pretty heavily. I want to make sure it stuck.”
“My memory’s a little fuzzy.” His thumb traces my bottom lip. “Might need to hear it a few more times.”
“I love you. You’re the first thing that’s ever really felt like mine to choose. And I want to spend every day choosing you for the rest of my life.”
His whole face softens. “Again.”
“Luca.”
“I just want to make sure I heard it right. My ears are still ringing from the gunshots.”
I lean over and kiss him. Soft and slow, careful of his split lip. He makes a sound against my mouth, something between a groan and a sigh, and his fingers tighten in my hair.
When I pull back, his eyes are closed.
“I love you,” I murmur against his lips. “I love you. I love you. Is that enough, or do you need me to write it down?”
“Might need it tattooed somewhere. For reference.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me.”
“I do.” I settle back against his side, careful not to jostle his shoulder. “God help me, I really do.”
The monitor beeps steadily. Outside the window, the Las Vegas sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that feel almost obscenely beautiful after so much ugliness.
