Page 145 of Salvatore

The air releases from my lungs in a torrent. My tears break free.

I cover my face with the washcloth as sobs escape. One after another after another.

“It’s going to be okay.” He shucks his jacket, drapes if over my shoulders, then turns me toward him, holding me to his chest where I cry, and cry, and cry.

He doesn’t say a word as I rest my face to his shoulder, my tears drowning his shirt. He simply holds me, his fingers gliding beneath the blanket of my hair and stroking softly against my nape.

His unexpected compassion only adds to my downfall, stirring the deepest depths of my sorrow, dragging a lifetime of loneliness to the forefront.

I sob, and sniff, and hiccup, his large frame a buoy in the storm.

Everything is too much. My tormented past. My devastating present. My bleak future.

He doesn’t quit holding me as the blubbering runs its course, uncontrollable and chaotic at times, restrained and keening at others. Not even after the weakness bids farewell, leaving behind rickety, hitched breaths and tears that have dried into a gritty mask coating my cheeks.

“Thank you,” I murmur into his shirt.

“That’s the last thing you want to do when I plan to kill the father of your child.”

I recoil, meeting the unforgiving volatility in his expression. “Why?”

“You want the truth?” His hand falls from my nape. “Jealousy, for starters.”

I glance away in shock, and okay, maybe I break eye contact in the hopes it will stop my heart palpitating.It doesn’t.My chest continues to be a pitter-pattering mess of instability.

“Tell me his name,” he demands.

“You don’t want to kill the father of my child,” I whisper.

“I assure you, I do.”

I shiver with awakening goose bumps. “That’s a bold move for a little jealousy.”

“There’s nothing little about it. You’re under my fucking skin, Ivy.”

I huff a derisive laugh, hating how my body reciprocates the feeling.Loathinghow my nerves warm to his unhinged possessiveness.

“You think I’m joking.” A cold smirk tilts one side of his lips, the callous bloodlust in his eyes making my nipples harden against the silken interior of his jacket.

“Actually, I don’t. What I think is that you need to ditch the theatrics of killing my baby’s father.”

“Why? Do you love him?”

“No.” I’m not sure love would be possible with a man like Salvatore. “But sometimes he’s worth having around.”

His jaw ticks. “Give me his name.”

The base of my throat tightens, making it harder to breathe. I can’t deny him the truth a second time.

I turn to face the vanity, needing a minute.

“Ivy,” he warns. “Give me his fucking name.”

I stare at him in the mirror, the weight of his severity emboldening my strength.

“Salvatore Costa.” The admission whispers from me, a mere kiss of acknowledgement in the confined space of the private bathroom.

His expression morphs into something I can’t decipher. No longer the presumed jealousy but not quite pity. It’s surprise, and concern, and the finer edges of hostility.

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