Page 41 of Brutal Vows

I’m too emotionally exhausted to cry again. A strange numbness falls over me. I fill my lungs with a bland breath and meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

The softness leaves his expression. He crosses his arms over his chest.

“For what?” he asks.

“For crying all over you,” I say.

He smirks and leans closer, looming over me in the doorway.

“Baby, you can use my shoulder however you need it. Cry, bite, scratch, hit. It’s all yours,” he says.

My stomach flips. With a few words, he breaks the ice infecting my veins, shattering my numbness, but nausea grips me as I imagine his expression when he learns the truth.

He cups my face and moves closer.

“If you’re that concerned, you can kiss it better,” he murmurs.

The rumble of his voice and the hunger in his eyes reawaken my lust.

I shake my head. He sighs, drops a closed-mouth kiss to my forehead, and pulls me out of the bathroom by my nape.

With fatigue weighing down my limbs, I follow him into the kitchen and blink in disbelief at the plates of food sitting on the counter. Ermanno leads me to the nearest bar stool and guides me onto it as though I’m an invalid.

No, not like an invalid. Like a precious, fragile doll in need of protection. After the sparring session we just shared, it’s ridiculous.

And undeniably sweet.

I study his face as he pulls the plates closer and asks me what I want.

I want you, Ermanno. Not just for today. For forever.

The tears I thought were all dried up scratch at the back of my eyes. I clear my throat and look down at the food.

Sausage, eggs, fried potatoes, sautéed spinach, oatmeal with blueberries on top, and strawberry yogurt all sit within reach.

Even though I bought the ingredients, the meal looks foreign and exotic as a spread. Probably just because Ermanno laid it out for me.

I reach for the oatmeal. My fingers tremble from the weight of Ermanno’s eyes as he studies my every move. I fill my plate, taking a small amount from each dish, and wish it would always stay this way: overflowing with his care and devotion.

He called me hisamore mioand now he’s proving it. It’s stupid. It makes no sense. We haven’t known each other for a full day yet, so declarations of love can’t hold so much depth.

Except my heart throbs with the same beat.

We eat in silence.

A deep sadness rises from the shrunken black hole in my chest. It grows with every bite I take. As I eat his carefully prepared meal, more of my plate shows, and visions of me in the kitchen alone fill my mind. I’ve spent countless evenings eating alone. Once he finds out I killed my own mother, I’ll be alone again.

I set my fork down.

“You need more calories. Keep eating,” Ermanno demands.

I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. My sleeve slips off my shoulder.

He presses his fork to my lips. I hesitate, but he narrows his eyes in warning, so I accept the bite. He sets down his fork and swivels me toward him before lifting my arm and placing my hand on his thigh.

My mouth waters. I watch in dumbfounded delight as he rolls my sleeve. His scarred and tatted hands hold so much strength, but he uses them with such gentleness.

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