Chapter 16 Isabella
He comes home after sunset, and I know immediately something's wrong.
The way he's moving, too carefully, favoring his left side. The way he won't quite meet my eyes when he walks into the yard.
And the blood.
There's a dark stain spreading across his shirt, just below his ribs.
"Lupo." I'm across the yard before I can think. "You're bleeding."
"It's nothing. Just reopened something from before. The work was—" He winces as I touch his side. "Don’t worry, it's fine."
"It's not fine." I take his hand. "Come inside. I need to look at it."
"Isabella, I'm filthy, dirty. Too dirty to come into the house like this. I should clean up in the barn first—"
"Now, come with me." I'm not asking.
Elena is playing in the living room when we come in. She looks up, sees Lupo, and scrambles to her feet.
"Lupo! Did you bring me something?"
Despite the pain he must be in, he smiles. "Not today, sweetheart. But tomorrow, maybe."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I get him to the kitchen table, make him sit. "Elena, baby, can you go play in your room for a bit? Mama needs to help Lupo."
"Is he hurt?"
"Just a little. He'll be fine."
She looks worried but goes, dragging her rabbit behind her.
Once she's gone, I turn back to Lupo. "Take your shirt off."
He hesitates, and I see something flicker in his eyes. Self-consciousness, maybe. Or fear of what I'll see.
"I've seen your scars before," I say quietly. "Many times. Nothing's changed."
Slowly, he unbuttons the shirt. The movement makes him wince again. When he tries to pull it over his shoulder, he can't quite manage it.
"Let me." I help him ease it off, and the full extent of the damage becomes clear.
The wound on his ribs, the one that was healing nicely, has split open. Not badly, but enough that blood has soaked through the bandage I'd applied days ago. And there are new injuries. Scrapes across his shoulder, bruising on his back, blisters on his palms so bad they've bled.
"My God," I breathe. "What were you doing?"
"Carrying lumber. Mixing concrete. Moving scaffolding." He says it matter-of-factly, like destroying his body is just part of the job. "It needed to be done."
"You're not healed enough for this kind of work."
"We need the money."
The simple truth of it silences any argument I might make. He's right.
I get the first-aid supplies and a bowl of warm water. When I sit down next to him and start cleaning the reopened wound, he goes very still.
"This is going to hurt," I warn.
"I can handle it."
I press the wet cloth to his side, cleaning away the dried blood. He doesn't make a sound, but I feel his muscles tense under my hands. The wound isn't terrible, it won't need stitches, but it's angry and red.
"You have to be more careful," I say, focusing on the wound instead of the way my hands are shaking. "We can’t let this get infected."
"I will be." His voice is rough. "Tomorrow, I'll wrap it better before I go."
Tomorrow. He's planning to go back.
"You don't have to go back," I say. “You shouldn’t go back tomorrow. You’re not well enough to do this kind of work.”
"Yes, I do have to go back." He catches my wrist, stopping me. "Isabella, look at me."
His eyes are intense, burning into mine.
"I need to work," he says. "I have to take care of you. Both of you. It's the only thing I can do right now. The only way I can," he trails off, struggling for words. "The only way I can be worth keeping around."
"You think that's why you're here? For money?"
"Isn't it? You need help with money. I can provide it."
"No." I set down the cloth, turning to face him fully. "That's not why you're here. You're here because I want you here. Because Elena adores you. Because you make this place feel less empty and more like a home."
"Isabella," he says, my name barely a whisper. "I don't even know who I am. Why would you want me here?"
"I know who you are now. That's enough for me."
"It's not. When I remember, when my past catches up, it might be bad."
"Then we'll deal with it then." I touch his face, feeling the rough stubble under my palm.
"But right now, in this moment, I know exactly who you are.
You're the man who works himself to exhaustion to feed my daughter.
Who checks the locks every night. Who plays with Elena like she's precious.
Who kisses me like I'm something worth having. "
His hand comes up to cover mine. "You are worth having. You're worth everything."
"Then stay." The words come out before I can stop them. "Not in the barn. Stay with me. Tonight. Stay here in the house."
Something in his expression shifts. Darkens. His eyes drop to my mouth.
"Isabella, do you know what you’re asking if I stay," he asks.
"I know."
For a heartbeat, we just look at each other. Then he moves, and suddenly his mouth is on mine.
The kiss is desperate, consuming. His hands are in my hair, on my face, pulling me closer. I part my lips and his tongue sweeps in, claiming, possessing. I make a sound in the back of my throat and feel him groan in response.
We're still sitting at the kitchen table. This is awkward, wrong, but I don't care. I need him closer. Need more.
I pull back just enough to breathe. "Elena, is upstairs."
"I know." His voice is wrecked. "We can't. Not yet."
"After she's asleep?"
"Yes." He kisses me again, softer this time. "I'll wait. I'll wait forever if that's what you need. I’m not pressuring you."
I make dinner somehow, though my hands are shaking and I can barely focus. Lupo sets the table, moving carefully because of his ribs. Elena chatters through the meal, oblivious to the tension crackling between her mother and the man she's claimed as hers.
After dinner, I put Elena to bed. She wants three stories instead of one, and I nearly scream with frustration. But finally, she's asleep, rabbit clutched tight, her breathing deep and even.
I check the lock on her door, just to be safe, and walk back toward my bedroom.
Lupo is standing in the hallway, waiting. His shirt is still off, the bandage I applied white against his tanned skin. He looks at me with eyes that are dark and hungry and full of question.
And something else.
Fear? Anxiety?
I hold out my hand and he takes it, his grip almost tentative.
I lead him to my bedroom and close the door behind us. The lamp on the nightstand casts everything in warm, golden light. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
He stands there, just inside the door, his chest rising and falling with careful breaths. Like he's restraining himself. Like he's afraid of what he might do if he lets go.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice rough. "We don't have to do this now. We shouldn't. I don't know who I am. What I'm capable of. What if I..."
"Stop." I step closer, close enough to touch his chest, to feel the heat radiating from his skin. "I trust you."
"You shouldn't." His hands flex at his sides, like he wants to reach for me but won't let himself. "I could be anyone. A criminal. A violent man. What if I hurt you?"
"You won't."
"You don't know that. I don't know that." His jaw is tight, every muscle in his body tense. "When I look at you, I want... God, Isabella, I want you so much it scares me. And I don't know if that want is normal or if it's something dangerous."
I take his hand and place it over my heart, letting him feel how it's racing. "Feel that? That's what you do to me. Not fear. Want. Need. The same thing you're feeling."
"Isabella."
I kiss him, pouring every ounce of want and need and trust into it. When I pull back, I'm breathless. "I'm sure. I want you."
Something in his expression breaks. The careful control slipping just slightly. "If I do something, if I'm too rough, if I hurt you... tell me. Promise me you'll tell me. You’ll stop me."
"I promise." I take his hand and bring it to the hem of my shirt. "Now touch me. Please."
His fingers curl in the fabric, trembling slightly. Then he pulls the shirt up slowly, so slowly, his eyes tracking every inch of skin he reveals. When it's off, he drops it to the floor and just stares.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "You're so beautiful it hurts to look at you."
Then his hands are on me, sliding up my ribcage, his touch feather-light. Like he's afraid I'll break. Like he's memorizing every curve, every line.
"You can touch me harder than that," I whisper. "I won't break. You won’t hurt me."
"But I might." His voice is strained. "I might lose control and then..."
I grab his hand and press it firmly against my breast, showing him. "I want you to touch me. Really touch me. Stop being so careful."
He makes a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a growl. His hand tightens, finally, and I gasp at the sensation.
"Like that?" His eyes are searching mine, watching for any sign of fear or pain.
"Yes. Exactly like that."
His other hand comes up, cupping my other breast, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the thin fabric of my bra. I arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping before I can stop it.
"You like that."
It's not a question. He can see it in my face, feel it in the way my body responds to him.
"Yes."
His mouth finds my neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin there. One hand slides around my back, finding the clasp of my bra. He fumbles with it, his fingers less steady than his actions suggest, and I reach back to help him.
When the bra falls away, he goes completely still. Just staring at me, his eyes dark and hungry.
"Give me a second." His voice is rough, almost pained. "I need a second to... to remember I'm supposed to be gentle."
"What if I don't want gentle?"
His eyes snap to mine, something fierce and primal flashing there. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm barely holding on as it is." His hands are shaking where they hover near my skin. "Because I want to touch you everywhere. Taste you everywhere. Make you scream my name. And I don't know if that's normal or if it's something darker. Something violent."