Page 73 of Dance with the Devil
I squeeze my eyes shut, and when he’s done, he collapses on top of me—being sure to hold himself up on his elbows so that he doesn’t suffocate me.
“Frankie,” he murmurs, kissing me across my lips. “I love you?—”
Another wail sounds from the monitor, and Dante quickly pulls out of me. “I’ll clean up and take care of it.”
“Okay,” I tell him, completely sated on the bed. I hear him quickly rinse himself off in the sink, pull a shirt on, and then he’s out of the bedroom.
The room sways as my lids get heavy, and the next thing I know, Dante’s lips are on mine as he wakes me up.
“You should use the bathroom,” he says, helping me up.
We both walk into our en suite together, and I sit down to pee. “How’s Lucia? Is she okay?”
He smiles as he runs a hand down his tired face. “She’s fine. I gave her some Tylenol in case it is her molars.”
“Thanks.”
After wiping and standing, I smile as he holds my oversized t-shirt out, helping me into it as he pulls my hair off my neck. We walk into the bedroom together, and I collapse face down. Turning my head to the side, I feel Dante pull the duvet over my body. He scoots closer.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, kissing the side of my face.
“For what?” I ask, my voice muffled with exhaustion.
“For this life.”
“You paid for it,” I tease, referring to the five-bedroom house he bought us when I was six months pregnant with Lucia. My things hardly filled one room, and even though a lot of it is his furniture from his old house, the majority of it is stuff we picked out together.
My car—a small Volvo SUV—is the only thing I bought for myself.
And even though I make way less money now that I don’t work for him, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
My baby blanket business just struck a deal with a major retailer, and I get to spend my days at my sewing machine, fulfilling orders and bringing people joy.
“Very funny. You know what I mean. Thank you for not running away.”
I swallow as I turn my head to face him. “You mean in San Francisco?”
He nods. “It easily could have ended very differently.”
“Well, it doesn’t hurt that you’re hot.”
He huffs a laugh. “I’m trying to be serious right now, Francesca.”
“I am, too. One look at you in those work pants and I was a goner.”
He chuckles and lays his head right next to mine. “Thank you for making me feel a little less like a monster.”
I place a hand on the side of his face. There are still some nights when I wake to him hovering above me, that familiar vacant look on his face. His parasomnia might never go away, but we work through it together, and if need be—like when I was newly postpartum—I sleep in the guest bedroom.
With the door locked.
He’s much more apologetic about it now.
It’s also something we’ve never told anyone else—almost like it’s our dark, hidden secret.
Just us.
Him and me.
“If you’re a monster, then I’m one, too,” I tell him, brushing my thumb against his beard.
“Never,” he whispers, closing his eyes.
I watch him as he begins to drift off to sleep, admiring his face and the way he’s such a devoted husband and father. The way he constantly questions if he’s good, if he’s moral. If doing the things he does in his sleep makes him a bad person.
But I didn’t fall in love with him because he wasgood.I fell in love with him because there was some kind of darkness inside of him that called to the darkness inside of me. If he’s a monster, then I somehow found a kindred spirit in him. It’s the kind of love that owns me, body and soul. It cuts deeper thananything else I’ve ever experienced. It’s the kind of love that was discovered in the darkness—the kind of love that took the most monstrous parts of us and blended them together to create something beautiful.
Every minute with him is a testament to a bond that transcends the ordinary.
I fell in love with him in the dark, but our love burns brighter than the sun.
