Page 34 of Pain and Pleasure

He brushes hair back from my eye with the knuckles of his other hand, resting it on my shoulder. He leans forward and kisses my lips softly, a quick and gentle brushing of his mouth over mine.

"I won't forgive you so easily anymore," I mutter as he pulls away.

"Then I'll make it up to you as much as I can," he whispers.

His thumb strokes my jaw as he holds my face. I like tender Dante. I like him even when I'm mad at him and isn't that the whole problem?

"I just want to lay here for the night. My hand and my head hurts," I say and he looks at my slightly bruised knuckles.

An angry look crosses his face for a second before something else covers it. Something a whole lot like pride.

"I can hold my own," I say. "I appreciate that you were there, but if you weren't so busy hosting a pissing contest with the guy and would've just gotten rid of him immediately, my knuckles wouldn't look like this."

His thumb brushes over them and he really does look sorry for a moment. He looks a little sorry and it makes me a little mad, because I can't stay mad at him for long. Because I love him. My fierce, tormented protector.

He kisses my knuckles before laying down and resting his head on my stomach. We stay like this for a while, just breathing in each other and forgiving one another with each minute that passes.

"I was married once," he whispers, and my body goes rigid.

What the fuck?

I swallow audibly, but don't respond, hoping my silence will allow him to elaborate freely. This is a new set of waters we're approaching, and I want to tread this lightly.

"We were nineteen and living in Columbia still. Our families were long-time friends. Hers also had a lot of money and connections. Things my father wanted," he continues.

I keep stroking his hair, staying silent and letting him choose to keep talking or not. Thankfully, he keeps going.

"We grew up together. Anna was sweet and kind, an innocent soul, but we were always just friends. Nothing more. Our love was deep, but not intimate." He says the word love and it makes my heart crack a little.

It cracks because he's saying it about another woman. Cracks because he's never spoken about it in regards to me.

"Our fathers thought it would be good to carry on our ties and business through more generations, so we got married. We were young and naive, but we were happy. Happy enough to try at being intimate."

My body is so tense that my muscles are sore. He kisses my stomach, looking up into my eyes as he continues to speak.

"It wasn't long before she wanted a baby. We were married for a year, and I already knew about the traditions not only in our culture, but in her family. Women were the caretakers, being a mother held an important title. One that she wanted more than anything. Since we were kids." His voice is darkening the more he speaks about her.

This may be the biggest demon inside of him. Except, she's not a demon because the way he speaks about her makes me think that she's a ghost.

"She had trouble getting pregnant. There were a couple of miscarriages, and it caused a strain in our marriage because I wasn't home enough to take care of her. The family business had picked up and my father was ready to execute the expansion and relocation to America." His hand idly rubs my stomach and I lay there as he unloads his surprising past onto me.

"When she got pregnant the last time, she carried to full term. The pregnancy was...stressful. She didn't want to leave the country and I kept forcing it on her. It was a better opportunity, better safety and security for our child. I didn't think about what the stress could do to her. Or to our daughter…"

His voice cracked when he said the worddaughterand it made tears spring to my eyes. My hand continues to smooth his hair back as he lays his head back down on my stomach.

"She went into labor a week before our move. Nearly eight weeks early. About thirty-six hours in, she died as soon as she pushed our daughter out into the world. The doctors immediately had to do CPR on our daughter. Only to find that she, too, didn't make it."

He's not crying, just saying the words like a robot reciting a speech. Emotionless, numb. He's a hollow shell shedding its remaining contents into this very bed.

"We never got to name her. I never even got to hold her." He looks up at me.

I don't try to hide the streams of tears pouring from my eyes. This man, this deep and dark man living in a faraway castle, slaying demons in dragons inside his own mind. He's never let another in, and I wonder if anyone ever made him feel comfortable enough to talk about this.

"My father carried on with business as usual. We moved to California as promoted a week later. I've been back home once to meet with my brother and our partners. My mother and sister have only visited here twice."

I guess not.

He props himself back up on his arm, wiping my tears away with his hand before holding my jaw. I rest my cheek on his knuckles, gazing at him as the tears keep falling. My broken man, my invisible knight.

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