18
Mia
“How the fuck do you get bruises like that from being a fucking ballerina?” he asks, clearly not believing me. I’ve always been a terrible liar, but I don”t want him to know the truth.
Crap! I’m so stupid!
I knew I should have covered them up, but I didn”t think. I let my stupid guard down. It looked worse a few weeks ago against my fair skin. But now, most of the bruises have faded, especially with the spray tan Karen insisted I get for the wedding.
I pick up the discarded shirt and put it on to cover up, hoping that he won”t ask more questions if he can”t see them.
“Does this have anything to do with the nightmares?” he asks, and I pale. Did I have one last night? I don’t always remember them, only the really bad dreams.
Why does he look so angry? Is he angry at me because I”m flawed?
“I’m sor––” I begin to say, but he places his index finger over my mouth, stopping me from talking. He tilts my head up, his eyes boring into mine like they might reveal the answer to him. Our faces are just inches apart. His warm breath fans over my face, making my belly knot with nerves. The last time we were this close was at the club, the day before we officially met when he kissed me. A kiss we never spoke about after. I mean, it”s not like we’ve had a lot of interactions to really talk.
“Don’t you dare apologize. The only thing I want to hear from you is who the fuck hurt you?”
As much as I want to tell him, it won”t do anyone any good. What”s done is done. It almost feels like he”s being protective over me, but he’s so hot and cold. Can I really trust him? I’m not so sure.
His gaze holds so much tenderness, something I wasn’t expecting. But all I can feel is shame as I look down at my glaring imperfections.
”Do you think they make me ugly?” I murmur, unable to meet his eyes any longer.
”Not at all,” he says as he runs his hand down his face. ”You”re beautiful.”
He hesitates for a second, seemingly more shocked by his response. “Everyone has darkness in their past. Tell me yours.”
My eyes fill with tears that I refuse to let fall. I am not weak, and I will not cry over this. At least, that”s what I keep telling myself as I take a few calming breaths.
“Here, do you want to see what an ugly scar looks like?” My head bolts up in surprise as he begins to unbutton his shirt. “I”ll show you an ugly scar.” He removes his shirt, revealing a canvas of tattoos that cover his muscular torso, arms, and chest. I”ve seen bits and pieces here and there, but I can”t help but stare at the man before me.
My husband is hot!
He drops his shirt to lift his arm, revealing a large tattoo of a lion across one tricep. There is so much intricate detail and shading creating such dimension to the mane. It almost looks as if the artist made it come to life. The entire design is mostly in black and monochromatic tones, except the eyes- piercing blue eyes stare right at me. In the body of the lion sits a scar about two inches long. Although it looks like it”s been healed for some time, the scar is raised and rough on the edges. At first, I”m not sure if this is the tattoo artist”s work or an actual scar. That is until Sebastiano takes my small hand in his large one, running my finger over the edges of his wound.
“An old knife wound,” he provides nonchalantly.
The ridges of the healed wound look so rough, but they feel soft under my fingertips. I look to see him staring at me, my fingers still thrumming across his skin as he holds our stare.
“I was working with the Gualtiero family to set some things up back in Philly when the deal went sideways.”
It seems like a serious wound, but I know most men in his line of work don”t go to the hospital. They either have a family doctor to make house calls or know someone who does.
“Now it’s your turn, piccola ballerina.”
I stare, still mesmerized at the sight before me. My hands are nervously playing with the hem of my shirt before I take a deep breath, pulling it over my head on an exhale, standing in front of him in just a bra and panties.
”T-this was from a belt when I was twelve. I- I ate a slice of cake at a birthday party,” I admit quietly as I lift my arm, pointing to the reminiscence of a faint scar on my side, just above my ribs.
Sebastiano stands before me, with a stoic yet emotionless face as he listens to me, his eyes not leaving mine until I finish speaking. Then, he points to another scar on his lower abdomen.
“This was from saving Enzo––we got into some shit when we were teens and pissed off the wrong people. They caught him, and when I went back to get him, I got hit with a chair so hard that it splintered, and a piece got stuck in me. It hurt like a bitch getting it out, because I didn”t notice a piece was stuck until a few days later.”
My turn now- pointing to another faint scar, close to the other one, near my ribs. “I got this when I was fifteen. I brought home a B in English.” Sighing, before I continue. “It was a bad week for me, and I was too weak to stand long enough to give my oral presentation. The teacher had no choice but to give me a bad grade, which brought down my final average.”
“Why were you too weak to stand?” he asks, his tone void of all emotion. But I don’t answer him because I can’t tell him the truth. The truth is so much worse.
Realizing I”m not going to answer, Sebastiano moves on to another topic. ”And the bruises? They look more recent,” he observes, his tone gentle but firm.
The hairs on my neck start to tingle at the thought of my bruises. ”Someone told on me about being at a Diavolo, before our engagement was announced,” I explain, trying to keep my voice steady despite the memories that surface.
”The night you kissed me?” Sebastiano asks, his voice laced with amusement.
I can”t help but roll my eyes at his remark. ”You mean the night you kissed me, and yes,” I deadpan, unable to resist a slight smirk.
”I was saving you, and you kissed me to thank me,” he provides, a playful spark in his eyes.
Yes, he did save me from some creep who was trying to grope me, but he definitely kissed me. Shaking my head at his insistence, I say, ”If that’s what you tell yourself,” I tease back.
”It’s the truth,” he says with a smirk, and I can”t help but chuckle at his cockiness.
We continue to stand in the bathroom, me still in my bra and panties, but I feel a sense of liberation wash over me. I”ve never shared these stories with anyone before; even Cameron only knows the G-rated version of what a monster my father truly is. In a way, it”s cathartic to let someone else see the scars I”ve kept hidden for so long. The feeling almost makes me forget how we ended up here in the first place.
Sebastiano takes a deep breath, his expression now serious with remorse as he speaks. ”I didn”t mean what I said earlier to Enzo,” he admits, his voice filled with sincerity. ”It was a dick thing to say about you, and I didn”t mean it.”
”It”s okay,” I reply softly with a smile of understanding. ”We all say things we don’t mean, sometimes,” I assure, and find myself meaning it.
Yes, it was a dick thing to say, but despite how crappy it made me feel earlier, this little bathroom session lifted the weight I’ve been carrying around for years.
So, at this moment, I decide that I’m not going to hold it over his head. We were both pushed into marriage, and I know we will have some growing pains.
As soon as the words leave my lips, I see relief wash over Sebastiano”s handsome face, confirming that I”m doing the right thing. Holding on to anger or resentment won’t do either of us any good.
Our eyes meet, and I can’t help but smile at the grateful look he gives me as a comfortable silence blankets us.
Finally, Sebastiano speaks, breaking the silence. ”You never have to fear anyone again, ever again. I”ll make sure of that.” His words are so confident, like a promise or vow to keep me safe and protected. It’s a weird feeling that I don”t know how to process.