“You gave up your empire.”
“Yes.”
“You came here expecting what?” I ask, voice raw. “That I’d see your pretty face and fall on your cock out of gratitude? Can you give me the month back that I grieved?”
A flicker of pained humor crosses his face and dies quickly. “No. I expected you to hate me.”
“I do,” I snap without thinking.
The words hit both of us. I breathe hard through the truth of them because it is not the whole truth, but it is real enough to stand in the sand between us.
I hate him right now. I hate him for the month. I hate him for being alive and letting me believe he wasn’t. I hate him for making my grief useful to his escape. I hate him for standing here with my name in his pocket and tears on his face and making it impossible for the hate to stay clean.
Vincenzo nods once. “I know.”
“Stop saying that,” I say, voice breaking again. “Stop fucking saying that.”
He takes one more step, but I don’t move back.
His hand lifts slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. I should. I should tell him not to touch me. I should keep the anger between us because it is the only thing protecting me from the relief that will break what’s left.
But I don’t stop him.
His fingers touch my cheek.
Warm.
Alive.
Real.
The second his palm settles against my face, something inside me goes silent in the most terrifying way.
I’m stunned by the contact. His thumb brushes under my eye, catching tears I do not have the strength to deny anymore. The gesture is careful enough to be an apology before he says it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice shaking. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I broke your heart to save my life and called it necessary because it was easier than admitting I was choosing a cruelty I knew too well. I’m sorry you had to hold that ring and think it was proof I was gone. I’m sorry for every night you spent alone on this island because I needed the world to believe your grief.”
His hand remains on my face. “I came back,” Vincenzo whispers. “Late. Wrong. Unforgivable, maybe. But I came back to you.”
The ring is still in my fist, but his name is on my life now.
Vincenzo Dragovich.
My anger is huge, but my relief is worse.
For a long moment, I do nothing. I stand there at sunset on the beach of the island I bought for him, bourbon spilled in the sand, the ring in my hand, his palm on my cheek, and I let the impossible fact of him press against every dead place in me.
Then I grab his wrist.
His breath catches, but he does not pull away. I hold him there, palm still against my cheek. I hate him and I love him, and if he takes his hand away before I’m ready, I might fall apart in a way neither of us will survive.
“You don’t get forgiveness tonight,” I say.
His eyes fill again. “I know.”
My grip tightens. “You don’t get to touch me and make this better. You don’t get to ever fucking do this to me again.”
“I won’t,” he says. “Never again.”
