Page 146 of Salvatore

“Mine?” It’s one deeply etched syllable that makes me shiver.

I nod.

He straightens, his height growing all the more domineering. “What about Gabriel’s men?”

“I wasn’t with any of them—consensual or otherwise.”

He doesn’t react. There’s no movement. No more words. The quiet is so awkward I’m compelled to fill it.

“Don’t worry. You have no responsibilities.” I hold my head high, mentally rebuilding my independence brick by brick as I clench the washcloth in my fist. “I’ll handle this on my own.”

“Handle it?” he grates.

“Yes.”

A wealth of emotions peer back at me, all ruthless and determined.

I wait for him to force the abortion issue. To make demands of my body and my future. Instead he continues to take in the sight of me, his stern stillness confounding.

“Say something,” I whisper.

It takes long seconds for him to rein back his severity, his posture softening slightly, his features losing the malevolent edge. “Are you scared?”

“Petrified,” I admit.

“I’m sure it’s concerning to be harboring the devil’s spawn, but I assure you, it’s safe to incubate the malevolence of my bloodline. My sister has a kid who is yet to show any signs of psychopathy… or so I’m told.”

It feels like another kindness—a conversational pivot to help ease the situation. “Or so you’re told?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t had a lot to do with her.”

“Why?”

He leans forward and glides his hand over mine, taking the strangled washcloth from my grip. “Like your upbringing, mine was unstable. The connection I have to my siblings is temperamental at best.”

My pulse gains a life of its own. I don’t want to accumulate any more similarities with this man. The current parallels are already softening me to him.

“You act differently around them,” I murmur. “I’ve noticed how your playfulness vanishes.”

He reaches around me, turns on the faucet to dampen the cloth, then slowly wrings it out. “Our relationship requires a delicate balance.” He brings the washer to my injured hip and raises the hem of his suit jacket, trailing the dripping material around the square outline of a waterproof bandage. “I was the spare to the heir for a long time.” Water dribbles down my thigh, the excess moisture creating a placid waterfall that cascades to the floor. “I was worthless, for most intents and purposes, and treated accordingly. Dante was the prince, Remy the baby, Abri the beautiful daughter, and I was a shadow. At least until Dante ran away from home and rebuilt his life as Matthew.”

I swallow against the tightness building in my throat, his tender touch awakening sedated nerve endings. “Then what happened?”

“They finally saw me.” He trails the cloth to the second bandage on my hip, gently removing the antiseptic stain. “And I learned that it was far better when they didn’t.”

He continues cleaning me in an unspoken contract—I grant him vulnerability to my body, inch by agonizing inch, while he grants me the same with his family secrets.

“And your father is dead now?” I ask.

He inclines his head, his gaze focused on the cloth as he guides it back around my waist.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he growls. “His death was a blessing.”

I feel the weight of his words. The guilt. The torment beneath.

I’m not naive enough to think he doesn’t mourn the loss. Children with broken relationships still grieve their parents’ deaths. It may not be the agony of losing what they had, but it’s the anguish of longing for what should’ve been.

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