Chapter Twenty-eight
Vida
I stumble into my room, my legs trembling and my steps heavy. His words pierced me, more than I could ever imagine they would. The memories of the man on top of me rush into my mind like a flood. I can still smell him, feel his hands on my skin, and hear his voice. The weight of his body still feels so real, weighing me down and stopping air from getting into my lungs.
I fall to my bed, curl into a tight ball, and shake uncontrollably as I let myself cry. I cry for what I almost went through, what that man had almost done to me, and what he would’ve taken from me. I close my eyes so I won’t think about it, but that is a big mistake. As the darkness takes over, it’s like I’m back in that room, that suffocating prison. I can see him, how angry he was, and how bitter his gaze was.
“This is all your fault! You led them straight to us,” he’d said as he pulled me by the hair. I can still smell his breath. He smelt of cheap alcohol and biscuits, and his teeth looked like they had not touched a toothbrush in years.
Cold waves pass through my body as the memory of him floods my mind, yet I can’t open my eyes. I can still feel his warm palms around my neck . . . on my breasts.
“I will take as they have taken,” he laughed. “I will fuck you so hard, you’ll never forget me.”
He was right, I would never forget him, and the realization only makes me cry harder.
I can still feel the sting on my face from when he’d slapped me, the way he gripped my hair, and how he pushed me to the ground as he called me a bitch. I lay here in my bed with my eyes closed, reliving it all.
I let the cries erupt from within me, every memory making me cry harder, my desperation to forget it all could be heard in my cries. I wished the memory would wash away with my tears, and the feeling of his hands on my skin would vanish. But they don’t, they haunt me with my eyes closed and even opened. I wrap my arms around myself as I weep, almost like if I hold on tight enough, my heart won’t erupt from my rib cage. It hurts so bad. My heart, head, body and soul hurt, and I have no idea what to do.
Ciro was right, and I hate it! I hate it every time he ends up being right. But he was right, still. God didn’t save me! He’d let me get kidnapped, left me to rot, and let that man do those awful things to me. God let all that happen to me just like he let Adam die!
I’m sad, tired, helpless and angry! My gut twists and turns, my heart aches, my body burns, and I can’t fucking do anything about it but lie in bed and cry helplessly.
I only get angrier, my feeling of helplessness somehow turning into rage, but what am I angry about? Who am I angry at? God, for letting all these horrible things happen? At the world, for throwing awful shit at me? At myself, for not fighting better? For feeling stupid and helpless? Or at Ciro? For . . . for . . . for . . . what? What am I angry at Ciro for? He saved me and I didn’t even say thank you.
Slowly my anger fades and turns to guilt and despair. He had saved me and I didn’t even thank him. He had taken care of me again, and the least I could do was be grateful. What was wrong with me? The question that brought no answer only sent me to more tears. I cry more and beg for relief. It feels like an eternity has passed since I got on my bed, but relief still doesn’t come.
Space and time have no effect on my broken soul, so I don’t know how much time has passed. I have no tears left in me, no strength left to hate the world or feel sorry for myself. So, I decide to take a bath, hoping the water will wash away what is left of that man. Hoping his prints will leave my skin, and slowly, his memory will leave my mind.
As I push myself up to stand, my left leg goes numb and gravity strikes. I collapse onto the floor, my aching body hitting the cold ground in a loud thud. I’m tired, hurt, aching, and have nothing left in me to cry out or even wince in pain. I stay glued to the floor, letting little teardrops roll down my cheeks.
Before I can blink for the third time, I hear the door that separates my room and Ciro’s fly open as Ciro bursts through it. He runs to me with worry carved into all his facial muscles. It isn’t something I can picture myself getting used to, but yet, this look is still nice to witness.
His hands stretch out to hold me, to help me get up, but my brain can’t stand the idea. I recoil instinctively, guilt flooding me from my actions, yet I also feel ashamed. I don’t want him to touch me, at least not until I’ve had my shower. I don’t want him to touch me when I’m like this, especially not when I can still feel that man’s hands on my skin.
“Little chaos,” he calls softly.
His tone is supposed to sound unfamiliar, yet something about it sounds familiar, like I’ve listened to him talk to me like that for a long time. But when? When had he spoken to me with his tone soft and calm, almost like he cared about me?
“Don’t touch me, please,” I beg, wrapping my hands around my body, ashamed and afraid of what he might think of me.
He stays quiet for a minute or two, and I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Look at me,” he finally says, his voice holding so much power. I can never disobey him when he sounds like this, so I slowly turn my gaze to meet his.
“You and I, little chaos, are of the same flesh,” he says, his eyes digging into mine like daggers. “Your pain is mine, I’ll carry it all with you”
For the first time in months, something looks different about his eyes. They seem brown, as always, but something is off, something I hadn’t noticed before. It’s almost like he’s wearing contacts.
“Let me,” he says, gesturing to his hands, like he’s asking for my permission for him to touch me. “I am sorry for earlier. But please, let me be here for you, you are not alone. I will never let you carry this hurt alone. Please.”
Of the same flesh. His words ring in my head. Something about that statement makes me breathe a little easier. It’s like there’s a banner over his head telling me that he’s here and I’m not alone.
I give him a slight nod, watching him take that as a ‘yes’ before finally touching me. His hands are everything that man’s weren’t. Ciro’s are cold, gentle, and calm. He holds me steady, guiding me back to the bed and helping me sit down. The way he holds me, almost like I’m made of glass, very expensive glass, makes me feel everything opposite to what I’d been feeling moments ago.
“What do you need, little chaos?” he asks, his hand still gently wrapped around me.
I want to look at him again, look at his eyes and be sure the brown eyes I’ve known are really brown. Or maybe he has an eye sight problem? That could be a reason he’d wear contacts.
“A shower,” I admit, my voice barely a whisper, and I only hope he heard me.
“I will help with that,” he replies immediately, like he’s either not heard me correctly or he hasn’t processed what his reply would mean.
“What? No!” I protest quickly, panicking and shaking my head.
He can’t! I won’t let him see me like this and see what they’d done to me. Yes, he’s seen me naked before, but not like this, not with all of these bruises.
“No, no. You can’t, I won’t . . .” I try to explain, but he presses a finger to my lips.
“I wasn’t asking, little chaos,” he stops me, his voice back to its usual firmness, though it doesn’t hold anger or spite like I’m used to. It just leaves no room for arguments. “You’ll stand under the water in the shower, and I’ll get you clean.”
He removes his hand from my side, and cold air instantly causes goosebumps to replace the spot his hand had been. I miss his touch the second it disappears, not even caring that I shouldn’t, or that, up until now, I would’ve been glad to have him further away from me. This time is different, and I want him close again.
“What are you . . .” I try to ask as I watch him stand up and settle in front of me.
“Getting you ready for your shower,” he replies, bending down in front of me. All I can do is sit and watch him.
“Can I?” he asks, his gaze dropping to my shirt. As my own follows his, realization hits me that I’m wearing one of his shirts again, which only means one thing; he’s redressed me and already seen the bruises on my body.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his words catching my attention faster than I can even explain. My eyes find his, and something inside me pinches at the sight of sadness in his eyes. Him showing me this glimpse of vulnerability from him has me relaxing and raising my hands so he can slowly remove his shirt from my body.
“I shouldn’t have left you in that alley, and I should’ve come to you sooner,” he says, placing the shirt on the bed. My bare chest is on full display for him but he doesn’t even look fazed by it. Why does that bother me? It doesn’t.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, “for saving me.”
“You’re my wife, I would kill to save you,” he says as he helps me stand up.
Wife. I’m certain that means something different to Ciro than it would anyone else. We’ve been married for almost two months and nothing about this marriage feels like a marriage.
We stand in silence as he helps me remove the pants I’m wearing. The moment he unties the string, they drop to the floor. Who knew his clothes would be so big on me? I think to myself, mentally smiling at the idea.
Here I am, butt naked in front of Ciro, all the shame I’d thought I’d feel somehow becoming insignificant.
“What are you doing?!” I ask, almost shouting. I might have shouted in my head, but it comes out as a whisper.
“Taking off my shirt? I can’t stand in the shower with all of my clothes on,” he replies, sounding casual, like this isn’t going to be awkward enough already.
“Let me take care of you,” he says, bending down and lifting me in his arms like I weigh nothing. The gesture doesn’t just make me gasp, but it sends waves through my spine and warms me in a way I’ve never felt before.
I can’t find it in me to protest. I want to, I want to so badly, but for today, I’ll let Ciro take the lead and have his way. I need help and just maybe, I need him.
He carries me to the bathroom, putting me down carefully in the middle of the shower before turning it on.
The splash of cold water on my skin is both painful and refreshing, so I stand here with my arms wrapped around my body as I wait for the water to warm. I begin to feel insecure as I stand here with Ciro, watching him soap the sponge and get the towel ready for when we’re done. I watch his muscles, his body the perfect canvas for all the ink on it. Every tattoo looks like it has a story to tell from a life he once lived. And as I stand under the water, focusing on him, I can’t help but be curious about the man in front of me. I find myself wanting to know everything he has to offer. I want to touch his tattoos, ask him which of them was his first and ask why his back has no ink on it at all. Is he saving it for something special? Does it still hurt if he gets more tattoos? I wonder as I watch him move, my thoughts coming to a halt as he comes to stand in front of me, getting soaked by the same water that’s brought some calm to my body.
“It might hurt, but I’ll be gentle,” he says calmly with that same voice that sounds so familiar.
“Okay,” I reply, giving him a nod and letting him run the sponge over my body. As I stand here, our bodies inches apart in the running water, I remember what happened after I stabbed that man’s eyes.
Ciro was there, he held me, he apologized, he carried me and brought me home. He held my hand and . . . and . . . he read to me. Calmly and gently, he read to me with his voice as soft as the evening breeze. He read my book to me while I slept.
The water raining over us practically fades away as Ciro’s hands work at cleaning my body. The awareness of his movements makes it impossible to breathe. The cold water has become warm at some point, and I don’t know if it’s because he’s turned it warmer or if it’s just from how hot my body is getting. With every scrub and quick skin to skin contact, my breath pauses. Yeah . . . it’s definitely my body heating the water.
Neither of us have said a word, but the silence between us feels louder than the water hitting the tiles. His touch is gentle and careful. I watch as he avoids my bruises, trying his best to be careful like he said he would. I can see the tension in his muscles as his fingertips graze over my body, almost making me want more of it; more of his touch.
I’m losing my mind. What is it about the way he’s turned gentle that makes me want him to continue? Like the night of the storm, how he held me steady on him, and now, how he washes me.
There is something more, something I try not to think about. But how can I not when every nerve in my body feels alive each time I feel his skin on mine? He is so close to me, the water dripping down his bare, inked skin. His hair is wet now, with water trailing down his forehead and jaw. I try to focus on something else, anything but him. My gaze lands on the dark walls, watches the way the mist fogs the bathroom, and how the shower head is directly above us. When my eyes land on the mirror behind him, the one showing me just how perfect his back looks, I know I’m fucked.
I close my eyes, now trying to force myself to relive my kidnapping, anything to get my mind off of the man touching me, but fuck, it doesn’t work. Instead, I feel every tingle his touch leaves on my skin. His hand lingers for more than five seconds on my stomach, while his other pauses when it gets to my neck, making my heart stutter in my chest.
An ache builds inside me, this time not from the bruises, but from the way he stands close to me, washing me, almost teasing me. I open my eyes to look at him, finding him looking unfazed, almost like all the emotions and feelings at war inside me are non-existent for him, and that hurts even more.
Why did I expect him to feel what I’m feeling? What am I feeling?
“Who was it?” I ask, breaking the silence, hoping a conversation will take my mind off all these thoughts and feelings.
“What?” he asks, not even looking me in the eye.
I hate how all over the place my emotions are. Why do I want him to look at me? Why do I care if he does or not?
“Who did this? Was it Donato? Were those his men?” I ask further, watching as he moves his hands over my body, not knowing the fire his touch ignites inside me.
“No, Donato has been off the radar,” he replies, again, eyes on what he’s doing.
“Then who?” I press on, mentally begging him to say something other than these short replies.
“The guy from Father’s house, the one that I shot.”
“What? But didn’t he die?” I ask, shocked by his answer.
“Yes, but his brother had grudges, so yeah.”
“His brother? Oh, is he dead?” I continue, begging my body to stay calm.
“No. He wasn’t in the house, but we’ll find him soon,” he replies, slowly bending down.
“What . . .” I start to protest, but stop, letting him do whatever he wants.
I’m certain I can feel the heat of his breath on my thighs as he scrubs my legs. My fingers twitch at my sides, desperate to move, to do something, to . . . touch him? No! Of course not! But fuck, the images in my head . . . my fingers in his hair, touching him, pulling him, dragging him up until our lips meet, till . . . What the fucking fuck!
“Fuck!” I curse, not realizing my mouth has taken over.
“Does it hurt?” He looks up at me, worried and fucking unbothered.
What am I thinking? The man who’s making me have these awful thoughts doesn’t even look like any of this has any effect on him. I’m covered in bruises and look pale, why would he feel anything towards that?
“No, no it doesn’t.” I force a smile, realization hitting me hard. Not once has he been fazed when he’s seen me naked. Why would he feel anything now when I look like this? I’m pathetic for expecting anything different.
I’m brought out of my thoughts when I notice he’s stopped moving, still frozen where he’s kneeling, just staring at my thighs. His fingers are splayed on my knees and his breathing has changed slightly, enough for me to notice something is wrong.
“Did he fucking touch you?!” He gets up immediately, his hands cupping my face and tilting my head back so I’m forced to look at him.
“What?” I ask confused, staring into his panic-filled eyes.
I’ve seen more of Ciro in the past 30 minutes than I have in the past two months, and I have no idea how to feel about it.
“Did he . . . have his way with you?” he clarifies, finally making sense.
Why is he asking me this out of the blue? Is he disgusted by me? My heart stops as hurt and disappointment wash over me. I feel dirty, filthy, and I . . .
“You’re bleeding,” he says, like he can read my mind and wants to clarify.
I follow his gaze to my thigh and spot the straight line of blood streaming down my leg. His hands move to my waist, his grip tightening so much that it hurts, but not in a bad way. In a way that feels like he’s afraid, like he’s holding on to some sort of hope that I’ll tell him no.
I shake my head quickly, trying to reassure him. His eyes stay glued on mine, filled with something I’ve never seen from him before. It isn’t his usual anger or frustration, he’s scared. There’s raw, genuine fear, and he needed me to tell him what he hoped to hear.
“No,” I whisper, my voice barely a whisper. “He didn’t, I promise.”
I hold onto his arm tighter, making sure my words sink in. His shoulders relax, and a sigh leaves him. But his hands remain around me, the moment suddenly becoming unbearable, too intense. I need to breathe, need him to put space between us so I can think straight.
My eyes widen as a thought pops into my head. “What day is it?”
Arching his brows, he tells me the date and everything makes sense. All of these feelings and thoughts, and the blood. Of course, it’s my period!
“Of course,” I laugh dryly. I’m not going insane, it’s just my stupid period messing with my hormones. I mean, I’m grateful to Ciro for helping me, but I don’t think of him sexually like this on a normal day. So this explains it all.
“Oh God!” I groan, feeling the cramps hit me hard, as if they’d waited for me to acknowledge my period before they hit.
“What? What’s wrong, chaos?” Ciro asks immediately, holding me steady.
“It’s my period,” I reply, feeling the pain shoot through my lower belly and waist. My knees nearly give way, but Ciro doesn’t let go. He holds me upright, his arms staying firmly wrapped around my waist, pulling me against his chest as he keeps me steady.
“I need my meds,” I say and watch him nod, not asking any further questions.
Why does it bother me that he’s staying silent and not saying anything to me? The period, it’s the period messing with my thinking. It has to be. Right?