Chapter 12 Dante
DANTE
I don’t sleep much. My cock remains stubbornly erect through the night, which makes rest very hard. That scared little confession that she’s a virgin echoes in my mind. She’d be mine entirely.
I listen to her breathing, and wonder what she was looking at on her phone. How to get a speedy divorce, probably.
Around dawn, I must finally fall asleep, because I wake to find she’s gone.
Panic surges in me as my brain registers the empty pillow where her dark hair was spilt like silk all night.
I’m out of bed and striding through the house in seconds, bellowing, “Ruby!”
There’s a clang from the kitchen, and muffled footsteps.
I run to find my wife. Rounding the doorway, heart hammering, I half expect to see Ruby climbing out of the window or preparing to go to work, which is not an argument I’m willing to have again.
Instead, I find Ruby in an apron, reaching between the cooker and the sink as she stirs a saucepan with one hand and has the other under a flow of water.
I sag with relief. She’s fine.
“Hey, sorry. You surprised me with your call and I dropped the spatulas.” She waves the offending item in the sink.
“What’s going on?” There are a ton of pots and frying pans on the stone, a glass of orange juice on the table, and places set for two, as though for a main meal.
“I’m making you breakfast!” she says cheerily.
All the blood drains from my face in horror, as I realise what all those pans are. Then I notice that she’s still leaning over the sink.
“What happened?” I demand, forgetting that I’m half naked, and go to her side.
“Nothing!” she protests, but she’s running her hand under cold water. “Just, I tapped the frying pan with my hand when you called, and I dropped the spatula.”
That makes no sense. Then it’s entirely obvious.
“You’re burned. Hurt.” I could howl with how furious I am that Ruby is in pain.
I take her hand in mine, the cold water pouring over both of us.
A pink line runs over the side of her hand next to her little finger.
I cradle her small hand in my much larger ones, examining her burn carefully, while keeping it under the cool flow.
She’s so fragile. I can’t bear it that something has happened to her, and the thought that worse harm could befall her is a fire in my chest.
There’s nothing I can do.
“It’s okay!” she insists.
It’s only a small burn, and she’s probably right, but I fuss all the same, examining it from every angle, and cursing myself for yelling and startling her. I was terrified I’d lost her. She’s only been my wife for a matter of hours, and a century wouldn’t be enough.
“Get dressed and breakfast will be ready by the time you’re done,” she urges me.
I open my mouth to say that I’m Italian in this way, and my breakfast is a small, sweet pastry and a cup of milky coffee on a good day, or a shot of espresso gulped down in one if there’s a lot of shit going on.
I glance over at the stove. Eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread, baked beans, as well as sausages and bacon.
If I eat all that, I won’t be able to move for the rest of the day. There’s toast, as well. A sad, dehydrated alternative to a morning pastry.
“I thought it would be nice for you to have a proper breakfast now you’re a married man.” She’s on a knife-edge of uncertainty and hope.
Fuck. I withdraw my hands from hers and dry them, and she goes to move too.
“Keep your hand under the water,” I say sternly.
“But I—”
“Tesorina,” I cut her off. “Be a good girl for me.” That stops her. “And I’ll finish making breakfast.” How am I going to tell her I don’t want a cooked breakfast, and I triply do not want it if it involves her burning herself?
“I’d like to do it for you,” she protests.
I begin to growl, but she says the one word that can disarm me.
“Please?”
I hesitate, and like a seasoned pro, she capitalises on my weakness.
“My hand is fine, it doesn’t hurt, and I really wanted to make you a nice breakfast and for it to be easier for you. Here.” She shuts off the water and dries her hands, then presses against my bare chest with both little hands.
My body responds. My heart jumps. My cock throbs. I’m instantly two seconds from grabbing Ruby, lifting her onto the marble-topped kitchen island, and devouring her for breakfast while the food burns and the world falls apart.
“Go!” But she doesn’t push me, and our gazes connect. Something hot sparks between us. Then the toaster pops, and we both turn towards it.
Reluctantly, I step away. This is important to her in some bizarre way I don’t understand.
“When I return, I want to see you with your hand under the water,” I warn.
“Yes, yes.” She waves me away with a satisfied smile.
Even when I’m fully dressed in my customary grey wool suit and silk tie, all Italian made, of course, I can still feel the imprint of Ruby’s hands on my chest. A tingling, sweet brand.
I hurry back to the kitchen, and find her serving a full English breakfast onto big white plates.
“Anything you don’t like, or are allergic to?” she asks casually.
“I’ll eat whatever you give me, wife,” I say, and I fear it’s true.
“Good.” She turns her sunny smile to me. “Sit down then! Coffee’s ready. Milk? Sugar?”
“Just milk.” I am broken as I sit at the table and am faced with my adorable, well-meaning wife, a mountain of food, and coffee less Italian than pizza from a truck stop.
I eat it all. Ruby glows with pride.
And I thank her, because the only thing that would sit heavier in my stomach than this breakfast is disappointing my wife.