Page 7 of The Ache That Stayed

“You’re with me, mia metà,” I whispered. “No one can hurt you.”

Her breath hitched. I pressed my mouth to her temple.

“Safe,” I repeated, steady and unwavering, until the tremor eased.

But the weight in my chest did not. It never did.

The dreams had started about two years ago. I remembered the first time clearly. She’d been curled into herself, breath coming out wrong, fingers clawing at the sheets like she was trying to escape something that had already found her.

I’d said her name again and again until she’d woken with a gasp and buried her face into my chest—trembling, refusing to speak.

At first, she brushed them off—new mothers don’t sleep, nightmares are normal. But I’d seen her shake in her sleep, whisper things she didn’t remember, lock her body like a door bolted from the inside.

Julian once said her wounds were old, older than me, but something had triggered them again. I believed him.

These weren’t ordinary dreams. They were echoes of battles she’d fought long before I touched her. And wounds didn’t need fresh blood to reopen.

I couldn’t heal them. That wasn’t my role.

My role was simpler. Make sure nothing touched her or the family we built while she bled through it. To keep her steady when the ground shifted beneath her. To make sure she never carried the weight alone.

I didn’t push. I didn’t ask. Interrogation worked on enemies, never on people you loved.

I’d learned long ago that truth came when it was ready—or not at all. Forcing only taught people how to hide better.

Later, when she slept—truly slept—I stepped onto the terrace and dialled a number I rarely needed twice.

The call was answered on the second ring.

“Any luck?” I asked.

Silence stretched. Then: “No.”

I exhaled slowly.

“You know him better than I do,” Martin said. “If he wants to be found, he’ll step into the light.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, a headache blooming behind my eyes.

“What else?”

“Someone thought they spotted him here, in Sicily.”

My jaw tightened. “And?”

“Dead end,” Martin said. “Ghost. Disappeared without a trace.”

I stared into the dark, waves of the sea lashing below.

That wasn’t like him. Men like that didn’t disappear unless they wanted the world blind.

“Keep looking,” I said.

I went back in and slept beside her. Roxanne shifted in her sleep, reaching for me without waking. Her fingers curled into my shirt like instinct—like my presence was an anchor her body recognised even when her mind let go. I kissed her temple once, slowly, anchoring us both to the present. Her breathing evened. Warm. Real.

Whatever had left scars this deep didn’t vanish. It waited.

I stayed awake, watching the rise and fall of her chest.