Page 72 of His Queen

She slides her hand up my shoulder, trembling as she clutches me, and buries her face in my neck as she starts to weep uncontrollably.

My arms encircle her shaking body. Everything hurts when she cries like this. It’s a flood of anguish that fills my soul, pain that drowns out everything else. It’s crippling, and I’ve never felt so weak in my life, helpless and wounded by her agony.

I pull back an inch, needing to see her, wanting to make sure she’s okay. But her nails claw into my shoulder as she pulls so tight as if she’s afraid this isn’t real.

“I’m here, baby girl,” I murmur, burying my fingers in her hair. I’ve never been a religious man. I’ve never given much thought to whether God is real or not. But now, while I’m holding my wife’s trembling body, listening to her cry, I choose to believe that there’s a higher power because I have to thank someone. I have to thank some…thingfor bringing her back to me.

“It’s over,” I say and gently lift her in my arms, carrying her. “I’m taking you home.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

MIRABELLA

I get out of bed,the plush carpet soft beneath my feet. I have no idea how long it’s been since Nicoli brought me home. Days? Weeks? My fingertips lightly graze a bruise on my arm that has turned an ugly shade of purple. Okay, maybe not weeks. I don’t know. Everything is a blur, a few flashes of faces filtering through. The doctor. Leandra’s kind face. Maximo’s concerned expression.

Then there’s Nicoli. He’s there, front and center. My Nicoli. My love.

But I haven’t been able to get myself to leave the room. I’m avoiding them, knowing they’re probably thinking about what I had been through, wondering if I’ll be able to get over it.

I will. I will get over it. I have to.

I tilt my head toward the couch and take in the lump of blankets in a tangle. Nicoli slept on the couch last night. I don’t remember where he slept the night before that. Was I awake then? I rub my forehead, squinting as I struggle to remember. I know Leandra said something about the doctor giving me a mild sedative so my body could heal, but it’s all a blur. I have no idea how long I was asleep. I’m not sure of anything right now.

I make my way to the window, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains to reveal an overcast winter day, delicate snowflakes floating down as it starts to blanket the earth. Nicoli’s car is in the driveway, and the tire tracks in the light dust of snow are fresh, which means he just got home. This morning when I heard him quietly slip out of the room, I immediately knew where he was going. I know how Nicoli’s mind works. He won’t rest until Nunzio is dead, and I find the thought comforting, thinking about Nunzio’s face right before he dies.

The door opens, creaking on its hinges, and I glance over my shoulder at Nicoli, his eyes two dark blue pools of emotion circled in darkness—almost a reflection of my soul. We both stand there in silence, staring at each other, and a part of me wants to run to him, feel his arms around me while I seek comfort in his embrace. But I see the anger, the guilt that clouds his face.

“Don’t blame yourself,” I say, leaning against the windowsill. “It’s not your fault.”

He doesn’t respond and merely stares at me, so I look back out the window again. “It’s my fault. I should have listened to you. I shouldn’t have gone to that wedding. If only I had listened to—”

Two strong arms wrap around my shoulders from behind, pulling me close, and a whimper brushes past my lips. His heat, his scent, his presence—it’s melting into me, warming me from the inside, and I don’t ever want it to stop.

“Tell me what you need, Hummingbird,” he says, his voice low and pained. “Tell me what you need from me, and I will give it to you.”

I suck in a breath, a hot tear slipping down my cheek. “The doctor was here this morning. He says my body has healed.”

Nicoli presses his nose against my head, and I hear him inhale deeply.

“I need you to erase him.”

Nicoli stiffens behind me.

“I need you to erase every trace of him inside me.”

“Mira, no.”

I turn to face him. “Please.”

“You’re not ready. It’s too soon.”

“How would you know if I’m ready or not? You just assume because I’ve been raped, I don’t want you to touch me?”

“Jesus Christ,” he growls, roughing both hands through his hair.

“You sleep on the couch because you think I won’t be able to handle feeling you next to me?”

“You’re healing, Mira.”

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