Page 82 of The One
Sobs rack my body, the intensity building with each breath until I can’t hold anything back anymore. I let it all out, every ounce of fear and relief flooding to the surface.
I don’t hear the door to my room open, or the footsteps that approach. But suddenly, strong arms wrap around me, lifting me from the floor.
Mateo carries me over to the bed and sits down with me in his lap. I bury my face against his chest, trying to hide, not wanting him to see me this pathetic.
This is the second time since I came to Rome that he’s had to comfort me because I completely lost it. God, he must think I’m so weak.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to hiccup between bursts of tears, my voice trembling. “I’m normally not a crybaby.”
His arms tighten around me, anchoring me as his hand strokes gently down my back.
“Mari,” he murmurs, his voice soft but unwavering. “You don’t have to apologize for having feelings. Not to me.”
His hand keeps moving, steady and grounding, and his tone drops to a gentle whisper. “You don’t have to be strong all the time. Let me be strong for you.”
I like that he thinks I’m not as pathetic as I feel.
So, I let him take care of me, let him be strong for me.
I sink into his embrace, melting against him, soaking up his warmth and comfort. The steady beat of his heart under my ear is grounding, reassuring me we’re both alive.
Alive.
And life is for the living. So why am I still crying?
I wipe away my tears, determined. If he thinks I’m strong, then I’ll be that.
“Thank you,” I whisper, avoiding his gaze.
“Anytime,dolcezza,” he replies, his arms still wrapped securely around me.
Please, don’t ever let go, my heart begs.
Here in his arms, I not only feel safe, but I feel like I belong.
What a beautiful dream!
I sense him glance down at me, and even without looking, I know he’s frowning. Hmm, when did I get so in tune with him?
“Your beautiful dress, it’s ruined,” he says, sounding genuinely disappointed. “If you like, I can have some similar fabric delivered tomorrow. And a sewing machine, and whatever else you need.”
Is he serious?
I pull back and look up at him.
“You want to buy me sewing stuff?” I ask in disbelief.
No one has ever offered to do anything like this for me. Isa and Mia might have supported my love for drawing and creating, but the rest of my family? My father saw it as a worthless pursuit, and even my mother called it a hopeless attachment to a dream.
A small smile plays on his lips, amused by my surprise.
“Yes,dolcezza. I want to buy you sewing stuff. It makes you happy, doesn’t it?”
I keep staring at him, wondering how this has become my life. I’ve just survived a gunfight, and the most gorgeous maneveris holding me in his arms, wanting to buy me the things my starved creative heart has always dreamed of.
“I loved this dress on you. Do you have any others you made with you?” he asks when I haven’t replied.
I shake my head, still too choked up to speak. If I think any more about this gesture, I might cry again.
