Page 147 of Beautiful Cruelty

The gesture feels like absolution I don't deserve.

I'm just some woman whose fiancé you killed.Her words echo in my head.You took all my choices away.

She's right. I did. I took everything away from her. And now I've taken her dignity too. Made her beg to be hurt when she deserves to be cherished.

My arms tighten around her slight frame.

Was she always this small, this fragile? What have I done to break her spirit like this?

"I'm sorry,zvyozdochka," I whisper into her hair, but the words feel hollow.

She doesn't respond, just presses closer. But her silence cuts deeper than any of her earlier words of hate.

I carry Lacey into our bathroom, her body light in my arms. The memory of washing the blood off her hands in the shower on the plane while we fled Paris comes rushing back.

I can see the same broken look in her eyes. The same defeated slump of her shoulders.

How many more times will I do this to her? How many times do I need to wash away the consequences of my choices from her skin to accept that she shouldn't be trapped in this place with a monster like me?

Steam fills the massive shower as I step in, still holding her. The hot water hits her back, and she shivers against me. Her dress clings to her curves, water darkening the fabric.

I want to tell her I'm sorry again. That I never meant to hurt her like this. That everything I've done was to protect her.

But the words die in my throat.

She turns in my arms, water streaming down her face. Those amber-flecked eyes meet mine, filled with an emotion I can't name. Before I can stop myself, I bend down and capture her lips with mine.

Her teeth clench at first, resisting. But slowly, achingly slowly, they part. The kiss deepens, and I taste salt—whether from tears or blood, I'm not sure.

My hands cup her face as the water pours over us both. Her lips are soft despite the violence earlier, despite everything that's happened between us. I shouldn't want her like this. Not after what I just did to her.

But I do. God help me, I do.

And I hate myself for it.

I reach for the straps of her dress, pausing before touching her. "May I?"

Her slight nod breaks my heart. Even now, after everything I've done to her, she still trusts me with her body.

The wet fabric peels away slowly, revealing inch after precious inch of her skin. My breath catches at the marks I've left on her—each one an accusation and reminder of how I lost control.

I stare at the angry red fingerprints on her thighs, the beginning of bruises on her neck from the imprint of the necklace still around her throat, my hands shaking as I drop to my knees before her.

What have I done?

Without thinking, I press my lips to each mark, begging for forgiveness as if my kisses could somehow erase the evidence of my violence.

A small gasp escapes her as I kiss a particularly dark bruise on her inner thigh. Her fingers thread through my wet hair, neither pushing me away nor pulling me closer.

And that's when it hits me.

I love her.

Not as a means to an end. Not as my fake wife. Not even as a woman who was willing to face unimaginable danger by my side.

I love her because she's her.

I love her so completely, desperately, with an intensity that terrifies me.

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