Chapter Forty-one
Vida
I can’t stop staring at him. My lips are still swollen and they tingle from how intensely I pushed him inside of me in an attempt to take every ounce of control from him. Ciro is lying flat on the bed with his head thrown back, and his chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon. And the sounds, God, the sounds that came out of his mouth, still echo in my ears. I want to listen to him moan for me everyday till the day I die.
“Little chaos,” he murmurs finally, dragging his hands down his face before looking at me with those haunting eyes of his, half-lidded and drunk on ecstasy.
“Let me hold you,” he says, stretching his hands to me and pulling me into the warmth of his embrace.
“My wife,” he whispers against my hair, like that single fact brings him all the calm and joy the world has to offer.
His hands trace soothing circles down my back as I melt into him, and his scent fills my nose with that earthy, musky scent. The perfect smell of oud that is utterly him, fills my nose like a dream.
Yet, something gnaws at me, lingering just beneath the surface. His eyes. His beautiful blue eyes. I can’t help but wonder why anyone would ever want to hide them away from the world. They’re such an impossible shade of Caribbean blue, and one look into them tells me their depths are full of stories I’ll never understand.
“Why do you hide them?” I ask softly as my fingers trace idle patterns on his chest, the question slipping from my lips before I can stop it.
How has this man, the very man I’d hated so much and never wanted to be in the same space he breathed in with, become so safe and familiar that I can draw on his chest?
I want to see his body without clothes. I want to trail my fingers along every line of ink that’s embedded itself into his skin.
His body stiffens beneath me as my words sink in. His silence that follows is louder than my question. His arms tighten slightly around me and for a moment I worry he won’t answer.
“My curse,” he says finally, his voice low. “They’re a reminder of the man I’ve spent my life trying to forget.”
I can tell this is a touchy subject, and though his reply is vague, I’m dying to dive right in.
I lift my head, meeting his guarded gaze and smile softly at him. “Go on.”
His lip crooks into a smile and he scoffs. “It’s not a story you’ll like hearing, little chaos. Believe me.”
“Tell me anyway,” I urge, my hand pressing lightly over his heart, feeling the organ thumping strong beneath my touch. It’s my second new favorite thing.
His jaw clenches as he takes a deep breath before his eyes lock with mine again.
“When I was a boy, I think 7 or so, my grandfather bought me a dog. It was a husky with perfect blue eyes, and I always joked that they looked like Carmela’s eyes, even though in reality . . . they mirrored mine. His name was Frosty,” he chuckles dryly.
“It was Carmela and Mother’s choice. So I stuck with it,” he adds, making me giggle lightly as I listen.
Then his lips press together briefly at the memory. The moment is fleeting, vanishing as quickly as it appears.
“I moved in with my grandfather after that. Giving me Frosty was his bribe to make me come live with him. With Father having all these damn rules, Grandfather’s house seemed like the perfect place to be. Stupid kid,” he says, his voice holding so much regret.
“For three years, he was mine. Frosty I mean, he was my everything. I loved that dog more than anything in the world.” His voice cracks, just barely, and it sends a shot of pain through my chest.
“What happened to him?” I ask, my throat tightening and my gut telling me this isn’t a story with a happy ending.
Ciro’s gaze darkens, his hold on me becoming almost possessive.
“So, one night, Grandfather woke me up. It was raining cats and dogs, but that didn’t stop him. He took me outside, and there was Frosty, tied to a post.”
Oh no. Oh God, no! He wouldn’t! Of course he wouldn’t.
“He handed me a bread knife and told me to kill him,” he mutters, laughing dryly.
“Ciro . . .” I gasp as the horror washes over me.
He doesn’t look at me. He keeps his eyes fixed on anything but me.
“He told me that emotions cloud judgment and that I had to learn to let go of anything that made me weak. And it would serve as a reminder to never get attached. And Frosty . . .” he pauses, knowing I already know what he’s talking about.
“Did you?” I ask, too afraid to finish the question and hear his reply.
“Yes,” he says bluntly. “I begged him to reconsider, did everything I could, but with him pulling out a gun and pointing it at me, I didn’t think I had any other choice.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I just stare at him as the tears fall down my cheeks, soaking his shirt. Why would anyone do that? He was just a child! What monster would do that to a child? God, no! My heart aches for him and for the little boy who took a life, one that belonged to his best friend.
“A fucking bread knife,” he scoffs bitterly. “I couldn’t slit his throat with one swipe, nor could I stab it once. Frosty just stared at me, like he knew. It was like he could see his death in my eyes and Grandfather liked it.”
He closes his eyes hard, like he’s reliving it all over again. Why did I ask?
“Stabbing was the less painful option. 12 times. Frosty died after the twelfth stab and Grandfather clapped as he watched me do it, drenched in rain and blood.” He lets out a sigh before opening his eyes.
“He was the kind of man who didn’t just command respect, he demanded fear. And my eyes . . . they were his favorite things.” Ciro’s hand brushes his temple briefly, his tone bitter. “They remind me of him. They remind me of that night. Of what I lost. Of what he turned me into.”
The tears run free now, pouring out my eyes as I cup his face, forcing him to look at me. “You’re not him, Ciro.”
“Oh, baby,” he calls as he notices the tears in my eyes.
“I’m not, I know. Don’t cry, little chaos,” he pleads, kissing my eyelids so gently and tenderly.
Then he simply stares at me, his eyes searching mine. His walls crack just enough for me to see the pain behind them, showing me the little ten year old who didn’t deserve the life he got. And then he kisses me, like he can read my mind and needs to take my thoughts away from the darkness of his past.
The kiss isn’t desperate or demanding. No, he kisses me slowly, gently, and softly. As his tongue dominates mine, I know there is more to the man I married, so much more I might spend my remaining days learning and knowing. But I don’t mind, I want to know it all. I want to be part of all of his pain and joy. I want to be his wife, more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life.