Page 39 of Possessive Vows

“You are safe with me,so´lnyshka. Take the time you need. I will wait,” he says before turning to leave.

I grab his arm before I can think better of it. He swivels his head and looks at me over his shoulder.

“The bedroom is too intimate. Let’s just get this over with in here,” I demand.

“Whatever you need,so´lnyshka,” he vows.

A lump forms in my throat, but I don’t waste energy clearing it. Instead, I crumple my sweatshirt in my fists on top of the counter and watch him through the mirror.

He retrieves several items from the bedroom and places them where I can see them on the other side of the sink.

Arnica ointment, self-adhesive bandages, elastic bandage wraps, and a few different sized ice packs seem like overkill for a little bit of soreness, but when I really look at my reflection, I understand everyone’s reaction.

The fingertip-sized bruises show how brutally my mother gripped me as I fought to protect myself.

Tears scratch the back of my eyes. I take a deep breath and press my elbows to my sides as sweat drips down from my armpits.

“I will ice your arm first,” he grumbles.

His deep, smooth voice pulls me away from my downward spiral, but kneading my sweatshirt also prevents me from diving into panic, so I don’t offer him my arm.

He doesn’t pry my hand out of the fabric. Instead, he wedges his colossal body into the space between me and the wall—without touching me—and threads the largest ice pack around my forearm. His thick fingers pull the hook and loop straps closed around the soft lining, encasing my arm in soothing coldness.

The cast may have been necessary for my physical healing, but it wreaked havoc on my emotional health. My panic creeps closer as the weight of the ice pack tugs at my arm, and I struggle as the air thins.

I blink and twist my sweatshirt in my hands, confirming I have control of my limbs, and meet Dimitri’s eyes in the mirror. He waits until I get control of my breathing to move again.

“I will put ointment on your bruises,” he announces in his low, unyielding voice.

He opens the arnica ointment and squeezes a line onto his finger before reaching for the collar of my shirt with his other hand.

Bile rises in the back of my throat.

I am safe. I am alive. I am loved. I am healing.

He dips his warm, rough finger under my collar.

Harsh masculine voices yell obscenities at me. Hands touch me everywhere. Everything hurts.

My collar tightens against the front of my throat.

I break as the barrier between past and present blurs, fighting with everything I have and scrambling for freedom. Halfway falling through the bathroom door, I cry out as I knock my shoulder into the frame and tumble toward the floor.

Gigantic arms save me from slamming face first into the hardwood, but I lash out and elbow my savior in the face before rolling out of his grip, crawling across the floor, and climbing to my feet using the dresser.

The door to the hall opens.

I scream, throw the vase, and drop into a defensive ball, seeing nothing but another man intent on hurting me.

Giorgio’s grunt of pain sounds from far away. The demons in my head are much closer. They’re everywhere. Around me. Inside me. Hurting me. Humiliating me.

A low, smooth voice sneaks in through the violence, reaching past my panic and caressing my soul with praise and assurances.

When my nightmares finally release their grip on me, I gasp as oxygen and light return to the room, my senses reeling as adrenaline courses through my veins.

“Do not touch her,” my savior snarls.

I meet sky-blue eyes and latch on to the strength emanating from his soul.

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