37. Penelope
PENELOPE
T he days since Amara was admitted passed both too quickly and not quickly enough.
Time blurred, just like the city outside the passenger window with buildings and lights streaking past in gray ribbons of rain on the glass. The radio was off and so was Enzo’s cell phone. Our breaths in the space between us mixed with the pitter-patter of the rain, and a low tap, tap, tap .
Enzo’s strong fingers tapped against the steering wheel in a rhythmic, thoughtful motion.
His other hand rested on my thigh, warm and heavy, grounding me in the way that his absence unnerved me in the past few days.
He’d been disappearing for a few hours every day, sending unease through me that I feared to question.
The visitor’s bracelet was still clamped around my wrist, a reminder of what we were taking a break from.
“I found a house close by that you might like. More land,” he said quietly. “A private beach. Lots of space for guests.”
I looked over at him, his profile sharp and so handsome. He was always so somber and serious, so it wasn’t unusual that he wasn’t smiling. But there was a tension brewing. It was in the lines drawn around his mouth and in his too-stiff shoulders.
“You want to move out of the cottage?” I asked.
“Eventually.”
“Is the new house close to my parents’?”
He nodded once, fingers tapping on the wheel. “Yes.”
My brows frowned. “Did you buy it already?’
“I did.”
“Without my input?”
“If you don’t like it, we’ll keep searching. We can’t stay at your papà’s forever.”
“Is it because of… what he said the night you came back?”
Atticus Popov .
The name hung between us without being spoken.
“No, but things might get ugly and I need us to be… safe.”
I turned my gaze back to the window, fingers curling over his.
“Okay,” I said softly. “As long as we’re together and my family is nearby, any house will do.”
He looked at me, a smile tugging at his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
There was still something he wasn’t saying. Something heavier than the constant sound of rain on the windshield.
It’s you I love.
Maybe I shouldn’t have uttered those words, but they just slipped out of my mouth and I couldn’t bring myself to retract them. I meant them, and they were precious.
But Enzo had barely spoken since.
“You know that I trust you, right?” I finally said, meeting his eyes.
He didn’t answer for a long time. Just kept driving, the wipers sweeping across the windshield in a slow, hypnotic arc.
Then, finally, “Maybe you shouldn’t.”
His voice was low. Flat. But he wasn’t indifferent—a fact evidenced by the way he took my hand and gripped it even tighter. Like he was scared that I’d pull away from his touch.
I looked down at our joined fingers.
“I’m scared,” I whispered, staring at his shaved head, a reminder of Amara’s illness.
“I know. I’m scared too,” he admitted.
His jaw flexed as he looked at me. Really looked.
And for a second, I saw it: the guilt he wouldn’t name and the invisible war he waged.
“You know, I’m not just a pretty face,” I said. “I can help you with… stuff. Help you carry the load.” Whatever that load might be.
“Duly noted, mia anima .”
He didn’t speak again for the rest of the drive. And neither did I.
But his hand never left mine.
And maybe that was enough—for now.
I kicked my shoes off as we stepped inside.
The cottage seemed darker and quieter than ever before with the dull hum of the house and our breaths settling in.
We paused in the hallway, standing barely two feet apart. I couldn’t shake off the feeling that something cold and dangerous settled between us.
Enzo looked like he wanted to say something.
I waited for it, hoping.
His fists clenched at his sides, he took a step toward me, then brushed his knuckles against my face.
“I’ve never seen anything or anyone as beautiful as you,” he rasped, making my chest ache. “I don’t know if I can ever let you go.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, sharp and unexpected.
My stomach turned. “Then don’t ever let me go… if I’ve done something wrong?—”
“You didn’t.”
The words were low. Rough. Almost a growl.
Another step and the whole hallway shifted. My chest pressed against his hard body.
“You’re mine,” he said. He reached out hesitantly and softened his hand against my cheek. I leaned into his touch, eyes closing, breathing him in. “Even though I don’t deserve you. Even though my hands are stained in blood. Even though?—”
I pressed my finger against his mouth, silencing him. Then I lifted on my tiptoes and kissed him, showing him he was my entire world.
We kissed urgently, like it was our last night on earth.
We weren’t careful. Nor gentle. Our movements were raw and electric, both of us pouring our emotions into a kiss that said everything words never could.
Enzo’s hands were hungry as he roamed my body. When he touched my breast, I arched into his touch. When his fingers reached my thighs, I opened for him. My body was just for him, his own personal instrument.
He grabbed the hem of my sweater dress and pulled away just enough to yank it over my head.
His mouth slammed back on mine as his hands traveled south and ripped my bra and panties off my body.
We blindly tore at each other’s clothes until, in the next breath, he was naked too.
My husband’s hands were reverent on me, his rough palms gliding down my ribs, over my hips, spreading my thighs with gentle insistence. He touched me like I was the only thing that made sense. He touched me like he was desperate to commit every inch of my body to memory.
He scooped me up by the globes of my ass, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. His hard length pressed against my hot, throbbing entrance.
He broke the kiss.
Outside, rain continued to thrash at the windows. Inside, only the two of us existed.
Our eyes were locked, his lingering on mine, aching with unspoken things. With longing. With a heat that could consume me.
I shivered with need and emotions that were raw like they’d been sandpapered.
“Please,” I breathed, tipping my head back until it made contact with the hallway wall.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he entered me. I squeezed my eyes shut and gasped, needing to feel him everywhere. I needed his closeness, his heat.
He kissed my throat as he thrust into me, filling me to the hilt.
His breath caught, and a soft moan escaped my lips as his hips rolled into mine.
“More,” I whispered, amazed at how light I felt in his arms. “I need it all.”
He groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and familiar. He thrust inside of me with an intimacy that brought tears to my eyes.
His pelvis ground against mine, igniting sparks that spread from my clit to my toes. Every thrust turned urgent, but then he would ease his movements, as though wanting to prolong the sensation. In and out. Then fast and hard.
Our mouths fused for another kiss, his tongue sliding and licking. Wet and messy.
“My wife,” he rasped as my body shivered with an impending orgasm.
His fist in my hair, he thrust so deep I could feel him in my stomach.
My moans and his grunts vibrated against the walls, and I was sure nothing had ever felt so good.
He nuzzled my neck, his hips pistoning inside me and fucking me like the world was on fire. My pussy clenched around his cock, throbbing as an orgasm so violent raged through me.
I trembled, my legs still wrapped around him, as he followed me over the edge, his breath hot against my neck.
We stayed like that, our bodies molded together and him buried deep inside me. Our harsh breaths slowed, but I couldn’t quiet the whispers in my head.
Why didn’t he say anything when I told him it was him I loved, not his hair?