Page 219 of The One
I brush a stray curl from her face, my fingers barely grazing her skin. She doesn’t stir.
Guilt gnaws at me, sharper than any blade.
She’s strong, stronger than she even realizes, but I know her well enough to know how deeply she feels everything. How much this has wrecked her.
Has she warned her family? Or is she clinging to the belief that I’ll spare them? That I’ll spareher?
I don’t deserve her trust. But God help me, I need it.
I slide my arms under her, lifting her with the kind of care I’ve never shown anyone before. She melts against me, instinctively seeking my warmth even in sleep.
I hold her tighter, pressing her closer to my chest, inhaling her scent.
Carrying her to our bedroom feels right. It’s like reclaiming something I almost lost. She shifts slightly, her face pressing into my collarbone, but she doesn’t wake. Her exhaustion runs too deep.
I settle her into our bed, tucking the blankets around her. She barely moves, but the furrow in her brow smooths out. The smallest comfort, but I’ll take it.
My gaze lingers on her for a moment longer before I force myself to move.
I need to shower, to wash away the night, the stench of my time with her father. I changed at my hideout, but it wasn’t enough. I need to let it all run down the drain.
Stripping off my clothes, I never take my eyes off her. Even as I step into the bathroom, I leave the door open, my gaze flicking back to the bed while the scalding water sears my skin.
I won’t leave her alone again.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Mariella
Iwake slowly, the sound of running water pulling me from sleep.
Where am I?
The air smells like Mateo. Hmm, his sweater didn’t carry his scent this strongly before.
I shift slightly, my senses sharpening as I take in my surroundings. Mateo’s bed.
How did I end up here?
The soft creak of the shower door opening provides a clue.
Panic tightens in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut again, afraid of what I’ll find when I open them, afraid of his rejection.
Footsteps cross the room, quiet, measured. Then the mattress dips as he sits beside me.
Though he doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t reach for me. And the space between us feels like a chasm.
I force myself to stay still, breathing shallowly. The longer the silence stretches, the louder my heart pounds.
Then, finally, he exhales, long and slow.
“I’m sorry,dolcezza.” His voice is rough, worn.
Oh God. Is this it?
