6. Emilia
Idied.
I died and went to hell.
I’m being tortured for every bad thing I’ve ever done as I lie here in the darkness, afraid to move. It hurts so much worse when I do. But then it hurts when I don’t, driving me to try to turn my head this way and that, hoping it will help. It has to. I can’t take much more of this. It’s like my brain is being torn to pieces inside my skull.
I need to relax, an impossible task thanks to the panic that keeps wanting to wipe out everything else. Panic that the pain will never stop, and I’m going to feel this way forever. It’s childish and stupid. I know this will end. There’s no comforting myself with that when all I know, all that’s real, is pain. Agony.
I barely hear the bedroom door open and close again. Luca. I don’t have it in me to be afraid or put off by his presence. I can’t think about him right now, not when I’m like this.
“What can I do for you?” he whispers, and it surprises me to find how close he came on silent feet. He is already on the other side of the bed, in front of me, leaning close enough that his breath hits my face.
“Nothing,” I whisper, and that is a struggle in and of itself. “It hurts so much.”
“It usually takes around twenty to thirty minutes for the medication to start taking effect.” I should accept what he’s telling me without question. I mean, there are much bigger problems going on, such as how I’m going to live through this moment.
“Oh God, are you sure?” I beg him to be right as I count down the seconds in my head to get my mind off the pain.
“I asked the doctor,” he explains. He’s gentle, but his voice is something close to laughter. The bed shifts, telling me he’s sitting down. “Of course, I wanted to know everything I could about how to take care of you as soon as we got home.”
Strange. The sweet simplicity in his explanation is enough to bring me as close to a smile as I can manage. For the first time in hours, I can think about something other than the pain. “Thank you,” I whisper. There’s more I could express, but I can’t muster the strength.
“You don’t have to thank me. It’s what I do when it comes to you,” he tells me lovingly. There’s more movement, and I realize he’s stretched out next to me. I should recoil. I should push him away. I don’t have the strength to do either, and right now, I don’t want to. Not when I’m the closest I’ve come to feeling comfortable since the pain woke me up a few hours after I fell asleep.
It was stupid to avoid the pills. Stubborn. It was the fear of how weak and foggy they’d make me that kept me from taking one. “This is so bad,” I admit, holding myself very still for fear of what will happen if I move, expecting the sharp lance of pain to slice through me again.
“And I am so sorry you have to go through it. Hold on.” Suddenly, he’s off the bed, and I hear him in the bathroom before he returns. “Mama used to do this for me when I was little. Maybe it will help.”
The touch of a cool washcloth against my forehead is a surprise at first, but the sensation is nice. “Feels good.” I sigh.
“Focus on that,” he softly croons. “Think about how good it feels.”
“Tell me something?” I ask as he strokes my forehead.
“Anything. What do you want to know?” With my eyes closed, I can almost pretend he’s somebody else. Someone I should be with—an honest, decent man.
“No, I mean, tell me a story,” I whisper. “Something to distract me.”
“Distract you? Hmm…” He shifts a little, and soon, his voice comes from very close to me, face-to-face, only inches apart. I still can’t bring myself to open my eyes, but I feel him. “You kicked my ass in poker when we first got to know each other. More than once.”
“I did? I am a pretty good poker player.”
“No shit,” he grumbles, lacking any animosity. “I was convinced I was getting hustled. How did you get to be so good?”
“When I was in the academy, a group of guys would get together for a weekly game. I learned how to play so I could join them.”
“Why did you do that?” he asks.
“I wanted to fit in.” Laughing is the last thing I should feel like doing, yet I have to snicker at myself. “All I ended up doing was annoying them when I beat them.”
He chuckles warmly. “Sounds about right. You put everything you have into everything you do.”
“I try.”
“Did you notice all the little things you’ve placed around the house? Did you have time to look around?” I grunt that I haven’t. “There are some pictures of you and your parents, books, and knickknacks you brought from your apartment. Before you came here, I lived in this house, but it didn’t feel like a home. It was my refuge, a way to be on my own. But it wasn’t home until you showed up. I would come down from meetings up at the house and open the door, and it would smell like food and your perfume. Sometimes, you’d be playing music and dancing as you chopped or stirred. And it felt so right. I didn’t know it was missing until you came along.”
I’m overwhelmed. The emotion in his voice and the affection and intimacy are too much to handle. I would cry if I didn’t know damn well how much worse the pain would get. This man genuinely cares for me. He actually loves me. I’ve added something to his life and can’t imagine why or how.
“I never had much of an excuse to cook for just myself,” I admit. “I’m sure it’s nice to have an excuse to do it.”
“I like your meatballs better than Mama’s,” he confesses in a loud whisper. “She would clutch her pearls and faint if she ever heard me say that.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I promise, and we laugh softly. The medication is starting to work its magic, and the tangled knot of pounding agony at the back of my head starts to loosen. I can almost believe it won’t last forever.
“We weren’t supposed to fall in love, you know.” He speaks slowly, still stroking my forehead with the cloth now and then, letting it run down my temple and over my jaw. “I guess you would have figured that out by now.”
“I’ve been wondering,” I murmur. A deep breath eases the pain a little further, then another after that. Finally, I can think again.
“We couldn’t help it. At least, I know I couldn’t. I met you one night at the club I run,” he explains. “You spilled your wine on my jacket, and I was a goner the second you looked up at me. Your eyes took my breath away. And your body?”
I’m not imagining the soft growl that follows, just as I’m not imagining the sizzle of pleasure that runs up my spine at the sound of it. Yes, I can believe an instant attraction flaring up between us because, even now, when I feel like death warmed over, part of me wants to be closer to him, like my body remembers what my brain can’t. The way we fit together, the way we work.
I’m craving it.
I need it.
We don’t always get what we need, do we? Now is not the time. There might never be a time for all I know, but if the time exists, it most definitely is not right now.
I’m starting to feel a little hazy, losing my grip on myself. I welcome the sensation. It is much nicer than the agony so intense it makes me want to die.
“So that’s how we met,” I whisper. “I was wondering.” I must’ve known who he was, right? Why would I have walked into his club? I don’t party. I never have, always throwing myself into work. I must have been there to investigate him. Either I’m on an undercover assignment, or I was no stronger against the pull he has on me than I am now. Eventually, I succumbed.
I wasn’t confident enough to tell my parents, was I? Something was holding me back. Here I am, with no memory of any of it, and my parents are going to want answers. I wish I had gotten it out of the way before I was injured, but we can’t predict things like this.
“I have never, ever regretted that night or anything between us that came after.” His voice is so deep and rich, like warm honey poured over me. My body lights up, heating, and I realize my headache is gone. It may as well have never existed. All I know now is I want to curl up in his arms. I want to be held, touched, cherished.
It has to be the drugs. I need to be stronger than this. So he has his moments where he’s not a complete and total monster, even though I can’t erase the harm I’m sure he’s done. No matter how kind he can be, he is not a good person. No matter how piercing his eyes are, the way his muscles clench under his tight shirt, or how much my body wants his.
It’s not the washcloth touching my skin anymore. It’s the back of his fingers, his knuckles grazing my cheek where bruises are finally healing. “Sleep. You need sleep more than anything. We both do, I think.” I wish he’d keep talking. His voice is like a sonata carrying me on one gentle note after another.
Before long, the sound fades away like it’s coming from the other end of a long tunnel. I want to ask if he’s going to sleep, too, but there’s no time before true darkness closes in around me and wipes everything away.