31. Amara
AMARA
THE CRUELTY I DON’T UNDERSTAND
W hen Pietro walks in through the front door, he moves into the kitchen without looking at me.
I follow him, anger rising in my chest.
“Say something,” I snap.
He opens the fridge. “Did you eat today?”
“Really?” I cross my arms. “That’s all you’ve got for me?” I stand with one hand defiantly placed on my hip.
He shuts the fridge, slowly. “You need to keep your strength up.”
“Oh, we’re doing that again?” I cross my arms. “Why are we having a daily interrogation about whether I’ve had my vegetables while the city burns outside? You treat me like a patient, not a person.”
He closes the door, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes are darker than usual. Tired.
“Amara—”
“No, really, let’s talk about what matters,” I snap. “I’m locked away like some mafia Rapunzel, and you only show up long enough to make sure I’m fed and bandaged before disappearing like a ghost!”
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even raise his voice.
“I’m keeping you safe.”
“Are you?” My voice cracks. “Because it doesn’t feel like safety when I haven’t seen the man I’m carrying a child for. It feels like abandonment.”
He runs a hand over his jaw, exhaling hard. “You want me here?”
“I want you. The real you. The one who used to make me laugh, the one who kissed me like the world would end if he didn’t. Not this… this moody, broody stranger who only shows up to keep me alive.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I need the man who made love to me like I was everything.”
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. It’s as if I’m talking to a board.
I exhale shakily. “I miss your sarcasm. Your stupid, arrogant smirks. I miss you, Pietro.”
His eyes flash with something I can’t name—pain, maybe. Regret.
Without a word, he walks to me and gently takes my hand.
“Come on,” he says quietly. And for a minute, my heart beats so loudly it thumps in my ears.
I don’t ask where we’re going. Did I get to him? Is he going to move past our differences?
He steps forward and scoops me into his arms. I want to fight him, but I’m too tired. And I hope that he’ll take me to bed and fuck me like no tomorrow.
But he carries me into the bathroom and sets me up. He turns on the faucet to run a bath.
“Pietro…this is not what I asked for.”
“I’ll take care of you.” His voice is low, thick with something unreadable. “This is all I can give.”
He tests the bathwater and adjusts the temperature before dropping a bath bomb into it. Then, he helps me out of my clothes. I’m disappointed because his gentle hands never linger, and he never lets his eyes stray.
This breaks me a little more.
Because I want him to look.
To touch.
To want.
But he’s too careful, and he moves like a robot .
He lowers me into the warm water, his fingers brushing my skin like I might shatter.
“I’m not made of glass,” I murmur.
He kneels beside the tub. “No. You’re made of fire.”
Then why does it feel like he’s afraid of being burned?
I sink into the warm water, and he gently wets and lathers my hair.
His eyebrows are pulled tight, and his movements are precise.
I’m miffed because he’s the same man who fucked me in his office and now, he won’t touch me like that.
I long for the days when I used to push his buttons, and now, he won’t push back even when I purposely goad him.
After the bath, he wraps me in a towel and carries me back to my room. He takes the towel and makes sure I’m dried off before he helps me into bed. His hooded eyes tell no tales as he tucks the blankets around me like a child.
Then, as always, he leaves, and I’m crushed when the door clicks softly behind him.
I’m exasperated. I’m tired of working for him. I don’t know how to reach him, and I don’t know if I ever will.
I miss you, I want to whisper. I miss your sarcasm. Your hands. Your fire.
But maybe that part of us is gone.
Maybe he doesn’t want to go back.
And I don’t know how to move forward without him.