The door latches quietly behind me, and my pulse quickens as the sound disturbs her tranquility. She looks up at me, and for a second, all I can think is that I’ve walked into a dream I don’t deserve. My wife looks like an angel waiting for me in her white lingerie.
And I look like hell—bruised, bloodied, sweat still clinging to me from the ring.
Evelina’s eyes widen as she takes in my battered face, and I realize I haven’t found the depth of my remorse. I’ve made a complete mess of things—as usual.
8
EVI
My head snaps up at the sound of a latch closing softly, and though I had started to doubt he would come at all, I find Sandro standing inside the door of our room.
For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
He’s a mess, his white shirt wrinkled and stained with smears of dark red that make my stomach twist. His lip is split, his cheek already blooming into a vicious purple bruise. His knuckles are raw, as if he’s been dragging them across gravel—or skin. And his mercurial polished-hematite eyes carry a strange satisfaction that terrifies me.
Then he smiles. The faint curve of his mouth tilts to one side, the crooked grin soft and boyish despite the blood and bruises. It’s the first smile I’ve seen from him. And it doesn’t make sense—it shouldn’t make me feel lightheaded, shouldn’t make my chest squeeze and my pulse stumble. But it does.
“Did I keep you waiting long?” he asks, his voice low, gravel roughened from exhaustion or adrenaline.
I blink, flustered. “That’s… that’s alright.”
At least, I want it to be. But if I’m being perfectly honest with myself, it isn’t. I’ve spent the last hour torturing myself with the possibilities of where Sandro might prefer to be instead of with me. The worst was imagining him with another woman—perhaps the person he would have preferred to marry if his family didn’t need this alliance so badly.
Then my eyes sweep over him, horror catching up with me. “What happened to you? Did you… did you get in a fight?”
He wipes at his split lip with his thumb, then shrugs. “Something like that.”
Something like that. The casual way he says it makes me shiver. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain the blood, and that scares me more than an answer would. Sandro doesn’t pause or offer reassurance. He just starts unbuttoning his shirt as he walks past me toward the bathroom. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, as though stripping out of a bloodied shirt in front of his new bride is the most natural thing in the world.
“Where are you going?” I manage, my voice quivering in a way that makes me cringe.
“Shower,” he says simply. Then, with a glance over his shoulder, he pauses fleetingly. “Unless you’d rather I come to bed like this.”
My stomach flips. “No. It’s fine.”
The corner of his mouth lifts again, amused at my flustered response. The he disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of running water fills the silence.
Palms damp, heart racing, I rise from my seat at the window to approach the archway into the bathroom. I find Sandro’s belt undone, his fingers deftly opening the zipper of his dirty slacks, and inexplicable heat throbs low in my stomach. I’ve never seen a naked man before, but the sharp V of his sculpted abdomen draws my eyes down to the elastic of his black boxer briefs, making my mouth go dry, and I can’t look away.
On impulse, words tumble from me before I can second-guess them. “Would you… would you like me to join you?”
The question hangs in the air like a fragile glass about to shatter.
Sandro stops, his dress pants halfway down his hips as he straightens to meet my gaze. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then he tilts his head, as if to study me from a new angle. His eyes narrow slightly, not unkind, but questioning as they trail slowly down my body. Warmth seeps beneath my skin, making me feel flushed and feverish as I suddenly remember just how little I’m wearing. My arms snake self-consciously around my waist, one crossing over my breasts in an involuntary display of modesty.
Sandro’s eyes follow the movement before flicking back up to my face, and that seems to be all the answer he needs. “You should get comfortable,” he says finally. “I’ll be in shortly.”
The rejection—or is it mercy?—makes my chest ache, and I nod mutely before turning to flee. I try not to listen to the sounds of water hitting tile, but every splash makes my skin prickle. Settling onto the edge of the bed, I wring my hands in my lap. My nerves feel stretched thin, pulled taut like a thread about to snap.
I’ve never done this before. Not with anyone.And I’m supposed to know how to be a wife? To please him? To make this nightsomething other than a transaction? What if I disappoint him? Or worse, what if this doesn’t matter to him at all?
Rising anxiously, I pace the room, then force myself to sit on the edge of the bed once more. The lingerie clings to my skin, suddenly too tight, too revealing. My cheeks burn as I adjust the fabric, tugging at lace that does nothing to hide me. I can’t still the trembling in my hands.
The water shuts off. The shower door opens, releasing a plume of steam as Sandro steps out, and I get the briefest glimpse of his perfectly sculpted profile before he reaches for a towel. He saunters into the bedroom, clean now, his hair damp and curling slightly.
Droplets slide down the hard planes of his chest, drawing my attention to the dark, swirling ink that covers every inch of exposed flesh. He doesn’t just look like a canvas. He’s a masterwork of art that raises goosebumps across the back of my neck. The images he bears are… haunting. Depictions of silent screams and chilling death. And between the jaws of a snarling beast that prowls across his ribcage, I see the blossoming purple of what might be a cracked rib.
His multitude of bruises look worse against scrubbed skin, stark and raw and feral. It reminds me of the whispered rumors that have come trickling in since the day my parents told me I would marry Sandro. He’s violent. Dangerous. Deadly. Unhinged. And now, he’s traded in his blood-stained clothes for nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
