Page 88 of Beneath Scarred Vows
"Okay, are you ready?" he asks.
"Yes," I answer, actually kind of excited. Given what I saw walking through the sex club, I can only imagine what's on the other side.
He pushes the door open and…
I hit him on the arm as he laughs. "It's the parking garage."
He wraps his hand around my shoulder as we walk out. He's never been so relaxed before.
"Yes, I was going to tell you when you asked, but I thought you'd enjoy the suspense."
I lean my head into him as we walk to his car.
Whatever this is between us, now it feels real. And for the first time since our wedding day, I'm not just resigned to being his wife. I'm starting to want it—especially that whole mother-of-his-children talk.
But first, since he's broken me free of my trauma, I need to help him come out of his.
30
ARES
Iswirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching it catch the lamplight as I sit alone in my office. The ice has long since melted, watering down the whiskey. I don't care. My mind is elsewhere.
It's been a week since I took Katerina to Hades. A week since she stood before those mirrors and finally saw herself the way I see her.
Transformed. That's the only word for what's happened to her.
This morning, she walked from the bathroom to the closet wearing nothing but a bra and panties. No hunched shoulders, no arms crossed protectively over her scar. Just my wife, confident in her skin, meeting my eyes with a smile that made me hard instantly.
I take a deep swallow of whiskey, feeling it burn down my throat. Making her see her true self—it might be the most meaningful thing I've ever accomplished. More than any business deal or territory takeover.
It's strange how that realization settles in my chest, heavy and unfamiliar.
My phone buzzes. It's Theo; he's almost here.
I lean back and think. I've never needed anyone. That's what I've told myself for years. Especially now—the Don stands alone, making the hard decisions, bearing the burden of the family on his shoulders.
Yet Katerina has been slipping past my defenses, challenging me. Ordering me—me—to bed when I work late. Bringing me food when I forget to eat. Rubbing my shoulders when she sees I'm stressed.
At first, I resisted. Resented it, even.
But now, I find myself checking the time, knowing she'll appear in my doorway with that look in her eyes—and I go willingly.
Sometimes we lay in bed and have the most passionate sex I've ever experienced. I'm not even sure it's just sex anymore.
I set down my glass, staring at the security feeds displayed on my desk. Camera four shows her in the garden, sketching.
I turn away and remember what my father said—that the most dangerous weakness a man in our position can have is love. But he also admitted, late one night after too much ouzo, that he wouldn't have survived without my mother. That her counsel kept him sane, kept him from making catastrophic mistakes, kept this family prospering.
A Don needs eyes in the back of his head,he'd said.Your mother was mine.
I remember how he'd consult her before major decisions. How they sit at the kitchen table talking quietly for hours before big moves. At the time, I didn't think much of it. Now, I wonder what words were exchanged between them.
After she died, he changed. Became harder, a bit more reckless.
Maybe he lost the eyes in the back of his head.
I toss back the rest of the whiskey and set the empty glass down.
