Breathe.
When I open them again, Dante is watching me with an expression I can't read. Patient. Waiting. Like he knows exactly what's coming and he's bracing for impact.
"I'm not doing this right now," I say. Each word comes out clipped. Precise. "I'm not having this conversation now."
"Marina—"
"No." I hold up my hand. "You're going to rest. You're going to heal. And when you're not actively dying, we're going to have avery long talk about how the hell you know where I live and why you have my phone number."
He's quiet for a moment. Then his lips curve. Just slightly.
"Okay, cara." he says.
That word again. He said it earlier, when I was cursing at him. Cara. The way it rolls off his tongue, soft and warm, like it means something.
I don't know what it means.
I'm not going to ask him.
"Rest," I say instead. "I'll bring your pills in two hours."
I turn and walk out of the bedroom. Close the door behind me. Lean against it and press my palms flat against the wood.
My heart is pounding.
I push off the door. Cross to the couch. Sit down and pull out my phone.
My fingers hover over the screen for a long moment before I open my messages and find Sophia's name.
What does cara mean?
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
The response comes faster than I expected.
Oh god
Then, a moment later:
Why?
I stare at the screen. Type back:
Just tell me
Three dots appear.
It means "dear" or "darling" in Italian. Like a term of endearment.
I read the message twice.
He keeps calling you that?
I don't respond.
Marina. Is Dante calling you cara?
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I don't know what to say. Don't know how to explain that yes, he's calling me that, and I don't know why, and I don't know what it means that my chest tightens every time he says it.
