Page 29 of Fatal Sloth

But before I can ask her anything, Mia is startled by my presence and quickly tries to cover up.

"Don't you knock?" Mia huffs, her voice carrying a hint of annoyance.

"Didn't think I had to,” I deadpan.

“Can I help you with something?” she asks as she holds a crumpled shirt in front of her, a sad attempt to cover her body as she bolts for the bathroom.

The sight of her half-naked should elicit a different feeling other than anger, except that my eyes are drawn to the faint bruising around her torso. Instantly, my heart starts to race as I follow behind her. I want to kill the fucker who did this.

“What's the bruising from?" I ask as I step closer. She pales slightly, attempting to brush off my question. "It’s nothing, just a few dance injuries, that's all."

How the fuck do ballerinas get bruises like that? They have faded some now, but there are several covering her torso and back. The explanation doesn't sit right with me, and I can't shake the feeling that there's more to this story than she's letting on. I grip her elbow and turn her towards me, my eyes scanning her body for any other injuries I might have missed yesterday.

"You don’t need to man-handle me!" Mia bellows as she attempts to pull away from me. My hand is still firmly gripping her elbow. But she twists her body, trying to slide out of my grip, losing her balance in the process as she topples forward. My instinct kicks into overdrive as I lunge forward to grab her, not wanting her to face-plant on the floor, adding another bruise to her body. The shirt hits the floor as I catch Mia in my arms, helping her regain her balance. My eyes unintentionally drift down to her rib cage.

The marks aren't noticeable when she's wearing regular clothes. I didn't even notice them in her tiny nightwear, but in this position that we’ve managed to get in, it’s very noticeable.

How the fuck did I not see this earlier?

Her eyes follow mine, seeing what I'm looking at. She scampers out of my arms, pulling a towel from the rack and wrapping it tightly around her body, hiding the bruises from my view.

“Who hurt you?” I ask, trying to keep my tone even.

Biting her lip, she turns away. “It’s nothing—just a few dance injuries. The wedding dress weighed a ton, so it didn't help, being stuck in it all day.”

She repeats the dance excuse. Damn, if I didn't feel like shit before, I definitely do now. Remembering how I abruptly ran out of the church on our wedding, hungover as fuck, how I’ve been treating her since our supposed engagement, and now what she just heard in my office.

I walk towards her, extending my arm to move the towel and get a better look when she slaps my hand away. Hard. Mia shoots me a surprised look, her eyes wide with shock. “Sebastiano,” she starts, but I cut her off.

“Oh Piccolina, I love it when you get feisty. Now tell me, who did this?" My voice is firm, my eyes piercing into hers, demanding answers.

“I told you, it's nothing,” she hisses as she bends over to pick up her shirt from the floor putting it on.

My frustration grows, fueled by her refusal to open up. "Bullshit," I snap, my tone sharp. "How the fuck do you get bruises like that from being a ballerina? And you sure as hell don't slap someone's hand away unless you're hiding something."

“Does this have anything to do with the nightmares?” I press, my voice low and a little softer. She doesn't respond, but the look in her eyes tells me what she won't say.

Do I really care? Should I care? Fuck that! Regardless of whether Mia is willing to tell me the truth or not, she's my wife. And if someone hurt her, that's not just a personal matter for her—it's a direct insult to me. Fuck caring. It's about respect, and nobody touches what's mine.

18

Mia

“How the fuck do you get bruises like that from being a fucking ballerina?” he asks, clearly not believing me. I’ve always been a terrible liar, but I don't want him to know the truth.

Crap! I’m so stupid!

I knew I should have covered them up, but I didn't think. I let my stupid guard down. It looked worse a few weeks ago against my fair skin. But now, most of the bruises have faded, especially with the spray tan Karen insisted I get for the wedding.

I pick up the discarded shirt and put it on to cover up, hoping that he won't ask more questions if he can't see them.

“Does this have anything to do with the nightmares?” he asks, and I pale. Did I have one last night? I don’t always remember them, only the really bad dreams.

Why does he look so angry? Is he angry at me because I'm flawed?

“I’m sor––” I begin to say, but he places his index finger over my mouth, stopping me from talking. He tilts my head up, his eyes boring into mine like they might reveal the answer to him. Our faces are just inches apart. His warm breath fans over my face, making my belly knot with nerves. The last time we were this close was at the club, the day before we officially met when he kissed me. A kiss we never spoke about after. I mean, it's not like we’ve had a lot of interactions to really talk.

“Don’t you dare apologize. The only thing I want to hear from you is who the fuck hurt you?”

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