Chapter 17 #2
“Take it.” I glance at the bathroom, aware of our proximity and how filthy I am. “I'm going to wash off. I smell like plane.”
“I’ll be quick. ”
“Okay.” As he grabs the handle, my feet shift. “Tell him I'm sorry I made him chase me.”
Xavier’s soft smile flattens me before he exits with a nod, leaving me to process the enormity of this night. Yesterday, I was in Reykjavik, being beaten within an inch of my life. My muscles ache at the thought, leading me into the bathroom.
My mind is elsewhere as I slide off my top, seeing Victoria’s lifeless eyes on the hard cement flooring.
The water doesn’t warm up immediately, but I step inside anyway, accustomed to frigid temperatures. It was a fortunate day when the compound had heat, let alone warm water.
Coating my hands with soap, I work the suds into my tense tendons, grimacing when I hit sore spots. The blood lodged under my nailbeds is impossible to scrub out. My eyes close tiredly as the temperature gradually rises, becoming a scalding downpour.
My thoughts range from the past, when I rinsed death off my body like this in Greece, to just days ago, when I was staring at my baby sister, grateful she hadn’t left me alone. My hair flows with the water against my skin as I rake my hands through the heaviness, turning for the towel.
I hadn’t thought about the door.
It’s cracked, half open, the overhead lamp pouring light into the bedroom. Xavier’s there with his phone still in hand, mid-stride, his eyes locked on mine. There’s no moment of shock, no impulse to draw the curtain—just stillness.
The water cascades over me, pouring down my sides. After a few seconds, he allows his eyes to wander downward, freed from my grip. His chest visibly expands, doubling in size. His knuckles whiten around his phone as he averts his gaze.
It’s not something he’d typically do. My husband, who’d ravage me in public if he could, who wouldn’t hesitate to slide his hand between my legs at a business function. We were insatiable in our new marriage, but there’s something between us now, a barrier someone else imposed on us.
Our last moments together remind me of why he would look away. I remember the cabin where he undressed me in tears and made love to me in an effort to erase what had been done. He was so careful, so scared to touch me. There was no heat that day, no passion.
We were saying goodbye—forever.
Perhaps, like me, he still exists in that moment.
For the past four years, any desire I felt would extinguish instantly whenever I remembered. There’s been nothing, no desperation or want since I last slept with this man in a motel in North Dakota.
Neither of us speaks as I dress, pulling on the only clothes I brought: a black tank top and worn jeans. Barefoot, my hands grip the sides of the basin, staring into the mirror long enough that the condensation starts to fade.
I can’t bring myself to move, to run a brush through the tangled knots. Hearing rustling, I find Xavier pawing through my bag, extracting the brush for me.
My back stiffens as he plants himself behind me.
My impenetrable exterior hurtles down on me when he eases my hair from my shoulders into his hands.
He drags the brush through the impossibly thick strands with a special sort of kindness.
It’s intimate, a consideration only someone with love in their heart would think to do.
If he feels my gaze on him through the mirror, he doesn’t show it, continuing to comb past when the last knot has unraveled.
Years ago, we stood just like this.
The difference in our situation is jarring.
“I want to take you somewhere,” he says, his eyes tracking the path of the brush.
“Where?”
“Somewhere with good distance from here. It’s in Long Island. We have a place there.” We . He said we . His teeth seize his bottom lip. “We need to talk, and if I bring you back to the estate, it’s a statement.”
Not understanding him, I say, “A statement?”
His eyes pierce mine through the mirror, instigating a jolt in my gut. “That you’re not returning as Sophia Marin, but Sophie Marcello, wife of the head of the Marcello Family.”
I don’t know what to say.
He must sense it as he lays the brush down, pressing his lips softly against my shoulder, lingering there.
“If anyone besides Bo had gotten a good look at you, we wouldn’t have any choice.
You would be back, and our families wouldn’t let that slide.
When I take you to that manor, it has to be your choice. ”
His consideration alone makes me want to convince him that I’ll stay, that I could never imagine leaving again.
But he turned his world upside down to free me from this life. I would never willingly choose that role for any other man but him.
“What do you think?” he whispers, wrapping an inked arm around my shoulders.
My fingers curl around his forearm.
“I think I’ll go anywhere with you.”
Weightlessness pulls my heavy eyelids apart.
Salt clings to the cool breeze as my cheek thumps against a solid chest. Gazing up, moonlight seeps through the thick branches of the sequoia trees overhead, shadowing the sharp marble planes of Xavier’s face.
Too tired to insist I walk, that I'm too heavy to carry, my eyes slump shut, appreciating his warmth.
His scent, mingling with the world around us.
Vanilla. Sandalwood. Ocean. Gardenias. Upturned gravel.
He enters the house, leaving the lights off. Around us, the furniture is tarped with white sheets, the air stifled from lack of movement.
I don’t care about any of it.
Not the endless ocean beyond the floral-draped windows. Not the expensive furnishings or the pictures of his family rested on the fireplace mantel.
Xavier emits a sound when I nuzzle into his shirt, my arms winding around his neck.
For a fleeting moment, before he lays me down on the bed, I let my lips linger on the heat of his throat, simply savoring his presence.
I’m still not entirely sure this isn’t a dream. Any moment now, I could wake up in Reykjavik, jolted from slumber with a bucket of ice.
Grimacing, I shake my head. No, don’t wake up.
He sets me down carefully, ensuring my head rests against the soft, frothy pillow. In the haze, I feel his hands slide off my boots and socks, placing my feet on the blanket.
That drowsiness fades when his weight leaves the bed. My arm stretches to capture his hand. In the dim light, he glances from our hands to my face.
“Don’t leave.”
He shakes his head, bending down beside the bed.
My heart seizes when his finger caresses the edge of my jaw, his dark brows knitted with concern. “Never, Sophie. I never would.”
You’ve been gone. You didn’t come.
The words are there on my tongue. “Xavier.”
“I need to make some calls, tell them where I’ve gone.”
My fingers tense before releasing him, watching him pass through the doorway, bending his head to clear the opening.
Exhaustion doesn’t lure me as it did on the drive over. My feet land on the carpet, taking in the room. A picture of him embracing his mother is on the desk beside a calendar dated ten years ago. A stack of baseball cards rests beside a jar of spiraled seashells collected from the beach.
My hands glide along the driftwood frame, absorbing the sight of my husband in his early twenties. He was far from the ruggedly handsome powerhouse he is now, burdened by a sadness evident in every photo scattered throughout this room.
Many mistook his pain for coldness, myself included.
None of us knew he was a prisoner, suffocating under his father’s mighty thumb. His maimed body is a sad reflection of those years when his smile slowly disappeared.
After everything that has happened, seeing the reminder now makes me want to run out to him, forgive the fact that he has seized his father’s throne.
My hand pushes aside the sheer curtain, and I stare out at the man strolling towards the water, his phone raised to his ear.
There is so much of him. His vest is open, billowing against the wild wind.
His hand drags his hair away from his face as he speaks, no doubt relaying orders and settling business before dealing with this resurfacing of the past.
He’s glad you’re here. You know he is.
My fears are unfounded.
I have to believe that he feels nothing for Bellarosa Barbieri, that he hasn’t found any meaning in this organization that once destroyed both of us. I want to take it back just as I wish it into the void. It’s selfish, utterly wrong to hope he’s found no comfort in my absence.
I chose to push everything away.
God, I hope he didn’t.
Abandoning the window, I enter the bathroom, sighing with relief when the sink spills water.
Washing my eyes and mouth, I look into the oval mirror.
Go to sleep.
Deal with this in the morning when you both have rested.
Before I know it, I'm crossing the tenantless living room, heading toward the double doors, pushing aside the pale blue curtain. My feet burrow into cold sand once I'm beyond the house. He’s still on the phone, his back facing this direction.
The wind and waves delay announcing my arrival, letting me hear him. What I hadn’t expected to hear was his voice—full of fear.
“Bo, I wouldn’t make it… losing her again.”
Suddenly an unwelcome intruder upon his privacy, his soft-spoken words, I rear back, hesitating to approach.
He inhales, his hand on his hip, listening. I have no idea what Bo would say or what he’s seen his friend go through.
“She’s bruised,” he says, like he can’t handle it. “She’s got fucking scars all over her. They weren’t there before. I don’t know how to ask her. I don’t know how I’ll keep myself from going insane when she tells me. If it was them…”
I definitely shouldn’t be here.
Turning, I retrace my steps to the cottage, winded by the confessions he never meant for me to hear.
The rawness of his desired gaze, laced with something I couldn’t quite place while we were in the motel room, makes sense now.
To avoid unraveling, I survey the property from this angle.