43. Connor
Chapter 43
Connor
Mary stares out the car window, her eyes distant and unfocused. She’s been quiet since we left the prison, lost in her own thoughts. I can only imagine the turmoil she must be feeling right now.
When she confronted Chris, the way her eyes dimmed as the truth sank in—it fucking broke my heart. I wanted to punch that piece of shit for hurting her like that. For making her doubt herself, for making her question what was real. And I could have punched myself in the process, too. I did the same to her.
But then she called me her stalker, and damn if that didn’t make me the happiest man. I know it’s fucked up, but hearing her claim me like that, even after everything I’ve done… gives me hope. Hope that she can see past my mistakes and give me a chance to make things right.
I reach over and take her hand in mine, squeezing gently. She doesn’t turn, observing the scenery rolling by.
I’m not good at this emotional shit. I’ve spent so long hiding behind screens and cameras, watching from afar, that I don’t know how to be real with her. Words aren’t enough.
So, instead, I just hold her hand and hope that somehow, she can feel everything I’m not saying. That she can sense the depth of my love for her, the intensity of my need to protect her and keep her safe. I just hope it’s enough.
“You said Chris is in prison,” she breaks the silence. “For how long?”
“Long enough that he won’t be a threat to you or anyone else.”
“Mh.”
“Ever been to Italy before?”
She shakes her head, strands of her hair catching the amber glow.
“Would you like to stay here for a few days?” My hand grips the steering wheel tighter, gauging her reaction with a sidelong glance.
Her finger traces the outline of the rental car’s door handle. Finally, with a small nod that feels like a victory, she agrees. “One or two days.”
“Want to walk around the city?”
“I just want to lie down today.”
“We’ll do that.” I nod, keeping my eyes on the road as I navigate the winding streets. Part of me wants to insist that we explore the city together to distract her, but I know better. She’s been through hell today. She needs time to process, to come to terms with everything that’s happened.
And fuck, I need time too. Time to figure out how to be the man she deserves, even if the way I show it is all kinds of fucked up.
I glance over at her again, taking in the way the sun dances across her skin, the way her lips part slightly as she breathes. I’m sorry.
We arrive at a quaint hotel nestled between cobblestone streets and weathered facades. The air smells of salt and the faintest hint of jasmine. It’s peaceful, distant from the chaos of our recent past.
“Let’s get you settled, then.” I reach over and brush a strand of hair from her face. Her eyes search mine for something I can only hope she finds.
We shuffle into the lobby.
“Buonasera.” The clerk greets us with a practiced smile. “How can I assist you?”
“Milton. I reserved a room for two,” I say.
Mary leans against the counter, her posture sagging with fatigue. She doesn’t question the room choice or intentionally ignores it. I take what I get.
“Of course, sir.” The clerk taps away at his keyboard and hands me two cards. “The keys to your room. Second Floor.”
“Thanks.” I guide Mary with a gentle hand at the small of her back. We navigate the narrow hallways, the soft glow of sconces casting shadows that dance along the walls .
The room is modest but cozy, with the last rays of afternoon sunlight filtering through sheer curtains.
Fully dressed, she curls into herself on the bed, looking so small and fragile. It’s a stark contrast to the fierce, determined woman who just confronted the lying bastard. I know she’s hurting, and it kills me that I’m part of the reason why.
Fuck, I really screwed this up. And for what? My own selfish desire to have her, to possess her completely? I’m no better than Chris. I’m just another man who’s made her question her own judgment.
And yet, I can’t walk away. I’m in love with her. Completely, irrevocably, insanely in love with her.
I sit on the bed, careful not to disturb her. I’ll be her silent guardian, her protector from afar. And when she’s ready, when she’s healed from the wounds I’ve inflicted, I’ll be there. Waiting for her, loving her, until the end of time.
This is torture.
“I’ll grab a shower,” I say.
She murmurs something unintelligible in response.
Leaving her be, I retreat to the bathroom and get into the shower, seeking my own form of solace in the cascade of warm water. Steam rises, fogging the mirror and blanketing the room in a comforting haze. The droplets trace paths down my skin, each an attempt to wash away the guilt and helplessness that cling to me like shadows .
I press my palms against the cool tile. How do you patch up a wound with the same hands that caused it? How do you seek forgiveness when you can’t forgive yourself?