After wetting a washcloth with warm water, I clean between her legs.
“Are we trying for another baby?”
Her words catch me off guard. I still in the middle of wiping my cum from her thighs. When I meet her eyes in the mirror, she’s contemplating me with a sober expression.
She shrugs a shoulder. “We’re not using protection.” Following the gesture up with a frown, she continues, “I’m not on the pill, am I?”
“No.” My tone is clipped. “You’re not.”
Instead of telling her that this was a war between us, I rinse the cloth and dump it in the basin.
It started out as her telling me sex between us wouldn’t happen again and me proving to her we’d never stop. I like the idea of putting another baby in her, maybe a little too much. Noah is almost five. It’s time to think about giving him a brother or sister. But under the circumstances? With Tatiana’s condition, that may not be such a good idea. Strike that. It’s a terrible idea. It would be selfish.
“I think we should wait,” she says. “At least until things are more stable.”
Until she remembers.
For a fleeting moment, I don’t want her to remember. To hell with everything. But then I think about Leander, and my vision darkens.
“Dante?” she asks in a small voice.
“I agree.”
“I mean, I’d love to have more children?—”
“You don’t have to explain. Growing a baby is hard work. It takes a toll on a woman’s body. Raising a child is even more demanding.” My voice is rough. “Let’s wait.”
Her smile is uncertain. “Okay.”
I lift her into my arms and carry her back to the shower. As she’s already dried her hair, I use the hand nozzle to rinse our bodies. Taking care of her is a duty I enjoy, but I’m doing this more to cut short a conversation I don’t want to have.
I towel her dry, making sure she doesn’t catch a cold, and go to the walk-in closet to get changed. She enters a moment later and walks to her side of the closet.
As I took the day off to accompany Tatiana to her doctor’s appointment, I opt for casual wear, dressing in jeans and a T-shirt. She takes a yellow sundress from a hanger and pulls it on in front of the mirror before facing me.
“Can you please zip me up?”
I walk over, taking her in. She’s never worn a dress that exposes her back. She always chose clothes that covered her scars completely.
Cupping her hips, I turn her sideways. Gently, I arrange her long hair over one shoulder so that the long strands hang down her front, caressing the elegant curve of her neck in the process.
She looks over her shoulder as I zip her up. When she catches a glimpse of her reflection, her expression changes.
Her lips part. “My back.”
I steel myself, faltering for a moment before I finish the task of fastening the hook above the zipper. I don’t know if I can bear to tell her the truth. I haven’t even digested it myself. How will she react if she discovers her own father did this to her? And what do I say if she asks me why he took a whip to her and scarred her for life? How do I admit she suffered the torture to protect me? Is she ready to hear the gruesome tale? Will she try to leave me again when she finds out that I used her? The truth can only damage her fragile state of mind more.
She must misinterpret my reaction, because she steps out of my reach and turns around. “Do you hate it?”
“No,” I say honestly.
How can I hate what she suffered for me? She nearly died for me, for God’s sake.
Tipping up her face with a finger under her chin, I give her more honesty. “I can never hate any part of you.”
She gives me a small smile. “Good.” Her voice is shaky. “I’m not sure I’m ready to ask what happened.”
Relief washes through me. “Then don’t.”
