"It felt like I was dying," I admit. "In a good way. Like everything inside me was building and building and I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to."
"You tried to stop."
"I was scared." I trace a scar on his chest with my fingertip. "It felt too big. Too much."
"But you didn't stop."
"You told me to trust you."
"And you did?"
"Yes." I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "I did."
Bruno doesn't say anything for a long moment. His hand resumes its slow path down my spine. Up and down. Soothing.
"I don't deserve that," he says finally. "Your trust."
"Maybe not." I close my eyes. "But you have it anyway."
His arm tightens around me. He presses his lips to the top of my head.
We lay there in silence, tangled together on his ruined sheets. My body still hums with the aftershocks of what happened. My mind feels quiet for the first time in weeks.
I just want to lay here. With him. In the mess we made together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bruno
Ten minutes pass in silence.
Antonella's head rests on my chest, her breathing slow and even. My hand moves through her hair. The ceiling above us holds no answers, but I stare at it anyway.
Her body fits against mine in ways I didn't expect. Soft where I'm hard. Warm where I've been cold for two years. She hasn't moved to leave. Hasn't pulled away. Just lies here, skin against skin, like this is normal. Like we do this every night.
We don't.
This is the first time I've had a woman in my bed since before the shooting. The first time I've wanted one. She saw all of it.
And she's still here.
"Bruno?"
Her voice breaks the silence. I grunt in response, not trusting words.
"How do you feel?"
The question makes no sense. "What?"
Antonella shifts, propping herself up on one elbow. Her green eyes find mine. That beauty mark above her lip catches my attention again. I want to kiss it. Want to trace it with my tongue. Want to?—
"I'm asking how you feel," she says. "In general. What's going on in your head right now? What are you thinking about that you're not saying out loud?"
I stare at her.
"I don't—" The words stick in my throat. "I don't know how to answer that."
Antonella doesn't look away. Doesn't fill the silence with chatter. Just waits.
