Page 97 of The Devil's Pawn

My savagery has bounds, and that includes not getting anywhere near that pussy until her stitches dissolve.

“Okay.” She yawns again. “Will you stay with me?”

Her eyes lift to mine, and this fierce sense of love and protection clasps to my very being. My pulse doubles, triples, speeding to an unruly pace as she gazes deeply.

“I’d never want to be anywhere else, sweetheart.”

She smiles so sweetly, it makes me want to spend every second of every day making love to every piece of her heart and every inch of her soul. I never thought the man who only knew bloodshed—whose demons were louder than his humanity—would find someone to quiet the monsters and send them back to hell.

Leaning her head on my shoulder, she tightens her arms around me as I take us up the stairs. She got discharged a few hours ago, and we just had lunch. But all throughout, I could tell she needed a nap. I want her strong. Healthy. I want everything with her: a future, a family someday. She’s my girl, and I won’t let her forget it.

Once we’re upstairs, I flip the covers and lower her onto the bed, moving in beside her. She lies on her back, finding a comfortable position.

Propping myself up on my elbow, I look down at her. “Does anything hurt, baby? Do you need more meds?”

She shakes her head. “I’m okay. Don’t worry.”

But her broken smile betrays her.

I run my thumb across the angle of her jaw. “You don’t have to be brave for me, baby. You know that, right? Nothing would hurt me more than knowing you were hurting and I could’ve done something about it.”

Her eyes glaze over. “I love you. You know that, right?”

My hand drifts to her cheek, cupping her softly in a firm grasp, and the amount of love I feel for her makes my heart fucking jump like it’s about to explode.

“God, Raquel…” I lower my forehead to hers, pulling my eyes to a close while the tips of our noses brush over one another.

“I know,” she whispers.

We don’t need to say it to feel it. The words don’t have to be profound. Love is in everything we do.

We stay that way for mere seconds that might as well fill lifetimes in between. And for the first time, when I close my eyes, I’m not afraid of what I’ll find on the other side.

* * *

RAQUEL

A week passes in the blink of an eye, and every day, I’ve spent in Dante’s arms. He’s cared for me. Looked out for my well-being more than my family ever did. With him, I’ve finally found another person besides Chiara that I can count on.

I slip into a long, rose-colored spring dress, running my palms over the material at my thighs while getting ready for the barbecue at Dom and Chiara’s as I stare at myself in the full-length mirror. She wanted to do something for all of us. To have a day where we don’t have to think about the awfulness that has been thrown our way.

Enzo and Joelle will be there too. I met Joelle a few days ago when Dante and I stopped by Dom’s. We didn’t really get to talk, but I know she worked at the club with Chiara, and her son was one of the kids taken by my family. I still don’t know her story, nor will I ask. The last thing I want is to dig at her grief. I can’t imagine having a child and then having him ripped away from me and never seeing him beyond once a month.

My finger crawls over the bandaged gash on my arm, barely resisting the urge to scratch. The wounds have gotten better, and I’m no longer in too much pain, but they’re still there, reminding me of what happened.

But the real trauma is the one inside my head, when no one’s here to see it, hear it, or feel me gasping for air. It’s not nightmares. It happens when I’m awake. When I’m alone. When Carlito finds a way to infiltrate my reality and bring my worst fears to the surface.

Like right before, when Dante went into the shower and I began getting ready for today. It’s as though I’m back there every time. Like I’m still on that chair with his knife to my neck, but this time the blood is dripping from my throat, and in my living nightmares, I die.

I know I should mention it to Dante, that I should see someone about it, but who can I tell? I can’t speak honestly to a counselor. I guess I could lie and continue the charade about being attacked by someone I don’t know. The cops still buy the story, so a therapist would too. But what’s the point of talking if I can’t tell the person trying to help me the truth?

Dante’s shower abruptly stops, whisking me from my thoughts. I place them back in the box of things I’d rather forget.

The door creeps open, and he strolls out, a white towel draped around his hips. The sculpted muscles of his abs, that V dipping lower to that part of him that’s already visibly hard, has me wondering why I didn’t shower with him.

His hair’s damp, falling over his forehead in the sexiest way. He grins at me while I continue to stare, and it’s like I’m seeing him for the very first time. It might as well be, considering he’s refused to touch me since the incident. He’s worried he’ll hurt me, but I’m more than capable of knowing what I can and cannot handle. And right now, the only thing I can’t handle is the thought of those large hands anywhere else but on me.

He saunters closer, and my gaze runs over his chest and to those eyes I could fall right into without ever wanting to climb out. His arm curls around my lower back, tenderly moving his body into mine, while his lips fall to my neck, peppering soft kisses before they find the shell of my ear. His warm breath brushes over my skin, and I groan from the sensation, from the growing need between my thighs.

---