Page 150 of Bitter Poetry
I make the mistake of looking down at myself and wince.
I go, then rinse myself in the shower, and open the door as instructed before I slide into the huge bath filled to the brim with water and bubbles. The water still turns pink. Maybe I missed somewhere? I’m going to need another shower, but I’m here now and the hot water feels good.
Beyond the bathroom door, I can hear him thumping around—changing the bed, I presume.
He takes a shower while I’m still in the bath. I’m halfway to sleep when he urges me from the tub—despite my vigorous complaints—to the shower, where he rinses me off.
He dries me. There is a soft curse and a faint tremble when he reached the small baggage over the bit mark. But he takes a fresh bandage from the vanity to replace the wet one without a word. He slips a pair of sleep shorts on, and hands me a clean T-shirt to wear… no panties. At some point, while I’ve been distracted, he’s placed a tampon on the side of the vanity, in the wrapper and ready to use.
He’s weirdly thoughtful… for a man who just pounded me while I’m on my period.
“You want to use that, baby, or are you sore? And don’t worry about making a mess in the bed.”
My cheeks get hot again. I can’t make eye contact with him, but my entire awareness is filled with him and the ripped planes of his body—he’s in really good shape. It’s ridiculous, really. “I’m fine with using it, thanks.”
He doesn’t close the door this time, but he does leave, his footsteps fading like he’s left the bedroom. I think about shutting the door. But I can’t hear him, so I go ahead.
It hurts a little—I’m definitely tender down there. When I enter the bedroom, he’s coming back through the door from thehall with a glass of water and a bottle of Advil. He shakes two pills out while I slip into the bed and hands them to me before passing me the glass.
I can’t look up at him. It’s too much. The other times have been so rushed. All I can think about is how much I’ve wanted this man for so long, how stunning he is, how he’s just been inside me.
He takes the glass from me, puts it onto the nightstand, and tips my chin up until I meet his eyes. His face softens. He smiles. “I love you.”
He what?
I blink. My mind is gloriously blank.
“Lie down, baby.”
I do.
He turns off the light beside me, circles the bed, and slips into it behind me. Then he curls his arm around me until his palm is over my stomach, as he did before.
His breathing evens out. He’s asleep. This beautiful man, this conflict of sweetness and possession, has fallen asleep snuggling me.
If Christian is my dark knight, Dante is the devil himself.
I’m tired. I should sleep. But I’m also wired. He said he loved me, and, I don’t know why, but it’s like a wakeup call. It means I can’t stay here. Staying here puts people I love in danger.
Why didn’t I demand Cherry give me the code? Why didn’t I consider this before?
Beyond the window, dawn is breaking.
Terror has been such a constant in my life for so long that this moment is like the arrival of a familiar, bitter old friend.
He can’t love me.
And I can’t love him.
He’s married to someone else, and so am I.
Maybe he was with her tonight, and that was why he came home so late. And then he just slid into bed with me, and I let him, because, let’s face it, I’m weak for him.
I feel sick.
My resolve hardens. There is a bigger picture here than Dante and me and the dream of what might have been, and that’s not even considering the minefield of Christian. My life has already been ruined, but I can’t let Ettore ruin more lives; I can’t take that risk.
Tears begin to trickle down my cheeks as a plan unfurls and I recognize what I must do.
