Page 14 of The Heir
"Oh, good." She's silent for a beat. "Can you wash my hair for me?"
"I would be absolutely delighted." I gently scoot her forward. It's just enough to reach all of her hair. Grabbing the shampoo bottle, I squirt out a healthy amount and lather it between my hands. The grumbling sigh from her sounds like heaven as I massage the shampoo into her scalp. She shivers when I untangle the little knots.
Melody
Lying in the unfamiliar bed, tears flow freely with my husband's arms wrapped around me. He's perfection. I lap up every emotion he gives me, and I beg for more. His strong, warm hands are the epitome of safety. And yet, my skin crawls in this underground bunker. I can't see the sun. I can't hear the birds. The walls close in on me every time I openmy eyes.
Images of Ella's basement circle in my mind. Her sadistic laugh echoes in my ears, jolting me awake from the deepest sleep I've had in weeks. She did it. She broke me. She took all the resilience I built up over the years and shattered it. Shards of my psyche skitter across that stained concrete floor, leaving Dante and me to pick up the pieces.
Dante gives his touch and assurance freely, but I don't feel worthy. I allowed myself to be caught. I allowed myself to be imprisoned. I allowed our baby—fetus—to be crushed under her boot. As much as I want to blame Ella for everything, I share it with her.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper into Dante's jet-black hair. "I'm so sorry."
He doesn't stir. Good. He's exhausted; I can see it in the bags under his eyes. I hear the pain and grief behind every word. I recognize it—it's the same pain and grief I carry. For all the fear I had about being pregnant, this is a thousand times worse. I'd give anything to go back in time; I'd be a good little housewife. I'd stay inside. I'd eat fresh fruits and vegetables. I'd give him a healthy baby. A phantom pain stabs in my stomach as I gasp in a shuddering breath.
I don't deserve this. I don't deserve his affection. I don't deserve to lie here in safety, in comfort. All those nights I spent in jail, dreaming of this very moment, mock me. What if all of this is just to ensure I hold up myend of the contract? Produce a child and be on my way? I've only got two years left. What if it doesn't happen? What will I do? Where will I go?
How will I live without him?
"My love?" Dante cracks open a bleary eye and trails his thumb down my tear stained cheek. "What's wrong, love? Does it hurt?"
I shatter. I can't hold back the wracking sobs. I can't make myself speak. Slumping into his arms, I sob and sputter. Rafaella truly broke me, and I don't know if Dante can help me put the pieces back together.
"I missed you so much, Melody. I missed you every day and every night. Nothing was the same without you. Everything felt hollow. Empty. Worthless." He kisses my matted hair, damp with sweat and tears.
"How can you say that?" My voice cracks with every word, tears flowing like the sea. "I ruined everything!"
He rockets up with a furrowed brow. "No, you didn't. Melody—look at me. You didn't ruin anything. You're perfect. You are true perfection, my vicious bride. My dangerous wife."
Every word pierces my heart. Would a vicious woman allow herself to be captured? Would a dangerous woman fail to kill her captor? Would a perfect wife traumatize her best friend? Oh, god, I haven't evenaskedabout Helena.
"Tell me what's wrong, love. I'll make it better. I promise," he whispers.
"Why? Why would you waste all this time, all this money on me?" The words spill from me before I can stop them. Exhaling heavily, I can't close the floodgates. "Is it the contract? What about the baby? I let herhurtme; I couldn't keep myself safe—I couldn't keep Helena safe; I couldn't kill Ella—I failed, Dante. I fucking failed. I failed you. I failed our son."
"Fuck the contract." He launches himself at me, wrapping those arms around me again, pulling me in close. "Fuck the contract, Melody. You're mywife. No piece of paper will ever change that. If you run? I'll follow. If you get sick? I'll get you the best doctors in the world. If you lose your memory? I'll make you fall in love with me all over again."
"I got caught! I gotconvicted—you're attaching yourself to a felon! God, you're probably a felon now, too—you broke me out of prison transport, oh god—" Dante's lips on mine stem the flow of self-hatred.
Dante kisses me ferociously, like he's trying to devour my soul. I taste the salt of my tears mixed with his and open myself up to his frantic lips. His tongue slips between my teeth, and I can't stifle the groan that he pulls from the depths. The world melts away beneath me; the only thing that matters right now is us.
Him. My husband. Even though I don't deserve it, he rips my doubts to shreds. With one hand cupping the back of my head, I fall into the delicious madness of this man. For so long, I dreamed of this moment. I yearned for his comforting touch. Every night in that hellhole basement, every mind-numbingly boring day in jail—all I wanted wasthis. So, why do I still feel such heart-wrenching self-loathing? I don't doubt that he loves me. I know he does. I can feel it in every desperate touch, I can taste it in his feverish kiss.
But I still failed him.
Breaking our kiss with panting breaths, he pulls back and cups my chin. "Our son?"
"I don't know. Obviously, I can't know—it was just a clump of cells, right? But I kept dreaming of this little boy who looked like me, like you, likeus. He had the perfect smile and the most adorable laugh." I chew on my lip and toy with the cotton sheets. "It's probably just a trauma response, right? Something my brain cooked up to make me feel better?"
Dante's lush green eyes brim with tears as he takes my hand and brings my fingers to his lips. "Oh, my love. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't there—but you're here now. Tell me everything. Every single thought you had, every passing wish. Please, I want to hear it all."
And I do. I launch into the story of everything I remember. I tell him about thinking I died and went toHell, about Bridget at the hospital, about the guard who played on his phone the whole time. I tell him about Stacy and how she looked out for me. I recount everything I can possibly remember. He listens intently and massages gentle circles into my palms the whole time, laughing when appropriate, scoffing at the shitheads that run the jail.
Even though he doesn't say a word, his fierce attention chips away at the wall of disgust I've built towards myself. His loving gaze starts to mend the shattered pieces of my heart. He doesn't begrudge me for any of this—he simply listens. He listens, he loves me, and he shows it with every action.
Maybe I can learn to stop hating myself.
After a long, dreamless sleep, I finally wake feelingsafe. I don't have a single clue what time it is—which is another fantastic thing about not being in jail. The lights donotflip on at exactly 6 in the morning. I donothave a loud-ass guard yelling my name. I donothave to roll out of the bunk and present myself for strip searches. And judging by the delectable aroma wafting in, someone is cooking non-watery eggs.
