Page 80 of The Butcher's Wife
“And if I can’t?”
“Then I’ll carry you, or I’ll sit with you.”
“Tonight, you left.” She’s stating a fact, not an accusation, which might be why it cuts so deep.
“I came back. I’m not going anywhere, angel.”
She pulls back to look at me as the steam from the shower curls around us. “Don’t tell me things like that if you don’t mean it.”
Her slender face is guarded, her dark eyes closed off.
And I realize, despite all my fighting, all the ways I tried to push her away, I’d already lost a long time ago. I just had to have some sense knocked into me first before I could accept the truth.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the velvet box. I meant for this to be a gift, a flashy display of my affection and wealth, but as I look at her with one good eye and a battered body, I want it to promise something else.
“I’m here, Annetta. I’m yours.”
When she sees the engagement band that matches thering I’m wearing, and the gold wedding band with a heavy, princess-cut diamond cushioned in the center of the box, the tears that have been threatening to fall finally break free.
She slips off her mom’s engagement band and slides on her new one—a perfect fit—throwing her arms around me. I want to call it blind trust or naïve optimism that she accepts the ring so easily—she’s so young—but Annetta’s gone through a lot in her life. Maybe it’s something else. Maybe she sees something in me that I don’t yet.
I hold her in my arms, and I don’t say a word about the rest of the promises that are taking root in my mind—promises like forever and commitment and love.
Instead, I tell her to rest in bed while I get myself cleaned and patched up.
And because she’s Annetta, my defiant, compassionate wife, she waits while I shower so she can stick Band-Aids on me.
When we finally go to bed, we go together.
19
ANNETTA
After that night,Dom kept his word.
The first morning I slid out from under his sleeping body to shower, Dom joined me moments later, slipping behind me without a word. Neither of us spoke as he wrapped his arms around me and let me finish sobbing onto his chest until my timer ran out.
After, when he asked me how I was feeling, and I told him I was hungry, he laughed and took me downstairs to cook eggs for breakfast.
Each morning, he’s put me through a grueling—at least for someone who hasn’t worked out in months—workout routine that mostly consists of me beet-faced sweating as I sprint on the treadmill in his personal gym and cycle through a calisthenics circuit, before he teaches me basic grappling moves on his wrestling mat. When I called Neil the next day to make sure his piano came in, he didn’t mention any new visits from Dom.
The biggest change has been the way I’ll sometimes catch Dom looking at me—in the mirrors in our upstairs gym or over breakfast when I pass him a cup of coffee—asignificant, intentional look like he’s about to deliver serious news. He never does, dissolving the tension to crack a joke or wrapping himself around me for a kiss.
I would’ve been happy to let our new routine of training, eating, and making love go on forever, but after I missed Thanksgiving dinner with the family, Mom decided enough was enough.
“It’s a good idea,” Dom told me when I showed him my mom’s text invitation to a family dinner. “If anyone’s watching you, they won’t attack at your dad’s house, and seeing you out and about will keep them from getting desperate enough to try getting into the penthouse again.”
I spent the better part of the evening picking out an outfit, applying a full face of makeup designed to look like no makeup, curling waves into my hair, and stalling until Carlo texted me to get our asses over before he starts chewing on the furniture.
As I make my way to the living room, walking as gracefully as I can with every single muscle feeling like old chewing gum from our workouts, Dom’s attention pans to me like the beam from a lighthouse. He gives me that look again, and a shiver rolls through me.
He has a small yellow cloth, a bottle of oil, his arrows, and his phone playing a video about a guy in the wilderness scattered over the coffee table. He sits up on the couch, an empty bow pulled tight in his hands until he relaxes the string back to rest.
His beard is trimmed, his hair’s tamed into a bun, and only a small bruise remains on his left eye. His dark, rust-colored button-up is tucked into black jeans, and his heavy boots suit him perfectly. I’ve never thought much about cowboys, but if Dom had a cowboy hat and a big belt buckle, he’d blend right in with a roster full of bull riders.
Dom stands, dropping his bow on the couch, and takes a step toward me, filling my vision with broad, masculine features, high cheekbones, dark brows, and gentle brown eyes. He glances down at my hand, where my new engagement ring glitters on my finger for the first time.
He gives a wolf whistle and takes my hand, drawing me to him. “You look beautiful tonight, Mrs. Lombardi.”
