Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Liana
Iwake to sunlight streaming through the hotel curtains and an empty space beside me.
The sheets are cold where Frankie should be, but there’s no mistaking the evidence of last night.
The rust-colored stains blooming across the white fabric in an uneasy pattern are a stark reminder of what has transpired.
I stare at them, these physical reminders of my choice, my rebellion…
my lost innocence. A choice I made for myself.
I should feel regret or shame or something, but all I feel is a dull ache between my thighs and a strange sense of power. I chose this. I chose him.
The bathroom door opens, and Frankie emerges in a cloud of steam, already dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches tight across his chest. His hair is damp, and water droplets cling to the tattoo on his neck.
Our eyes meet briefly before his gaze drops to the stained sheets.
Something flickers across his face. I swear I see something like possession or pride, maybe even guilt… I can't tell which.
"We should get going," he says, his voice rougher than usual. He gestures vaguely toward the bed. "They'll…take care of that."
I nod, pulling the sheet tighter around me, suddenly aware of my nakedness. Last night, his hands had been everywhere, his mouth hungry against my skin. He set my body on fire from the first touch. Now, he will barely even look at me.
"I'll shower quick," I say, climbing out of bed with as much dignity as I can muster, wincing at the soreness between my legs as I carefully make my way to the bathroom. It takes longer than normal to get there and I silently pray Frankie isn’t watching my awkward hobble.
In the bathroom, I lock the door and lean against it, catching my reflection in the mirror.
I look different somehow. Or maybe it’s just in my head?
My lips are slightly swollen and there’s a small bruise blooming on my collarbone.
The mark of his mouth. I’ll have to cover that with makeup so it isn’t obvious for anyone else to see.
Is it bad that I want to keep it? His mark on me sits like a trophy, reminding me of who I belonged to last night and I don’t want to let it go.
Dropping the sheet, I turn sideways and examine the small datura flower tattoo beneath my breast. It's still tender to the touch, the skin around it slightly red.
My fingers trace the delicate white petals, and I shiver, remembering Frankie's thumb grazing over it last night, his eyes darkening when he realized what it was.
The shower stings against my sensitive skin, hot water running over marks I didn't even know I had. Some I know I won’t be able to cover with makeup.
Between my legs, I'm tender and sore, a constant reminder of what we did.
Of what I chose to do. I wash away the remaining evidence of my virginity, watching the water swirl clear down the drain.
And just like that, it's gone. A part of me I can never get back, given to a man who isn't even mine to have.
‘No regrets.’
I dress quickly in the clothes Pita apparently packed for me…jeans and a soft t-shirt. No trace of the white teddy anywhere. Did he hide it? Throw it away? I don't ask. I’m not sure I want to know.
The drive back starts in silence. The tension is thick and heavy between us and it’s like neither of us knows how to start the conversation off.
Frankie keeps both hands on the wheel, his knuckles white with how tightly he holds it.
I stare out the window, silently watching the landscape shift from pine-covered mountains back to desert scrub.
"Are you okay?" he asks finally, breaking the silence without looking at me.
"I'm fine," I lie, because what else can I say?
That I'm confused? That I want to know what last night meant to him? That I'm terrified of going back to reality. I don’t want to go back to preparing for a wedding I don't want and a husband I've never met?
He nods once, accepting my answer without pushing and for some reason I don’t like that. How easily he lets my answer slide. The miles stretch out ahead of us, and I can't help but feel like each one brings me closer to the end of whatever this is between us.
"Do you mind if we stop for a minute?" Frankie asks suddenly, already pulling off onto a small dirt road before I can answer.
The road winds up to a lookout point where the desert stretches out before us, vast and endless under the midday sun. Frankie kills the engine but makes no move to get out.
"Come on," he says finally. "I want to show you something."
Outside, the heat hits me hard. Frankie leads me to a metal railing at the edge of the overlook, keeping a careful distance between us, like he's afraid to touch me now.
"Look," he says, pointing to a cluster of tall, green plants. "Saguaro cacti. They live for two hundred years, sometimes more. They don't even grow arms until they're about sixty-five."
I glance at him, surprised at how interested he sounds in what he is telling me.
"How do you know that?"
A ghost of a smile touches his lips as he stares at the plants.
"I read, remember? I told you that yesterday."
"Tell me more," I say, not because I care that much about cacti, but because I want to keep him talking, keep him here with me.
This is a side of him he never shows when we are at the estate.
He seems happy…almost at peace. So he does tell me more.
He points out ocotillo with its spindly arms reaching skyward, barrel cacti that store water for the dry months, and prickly pear whose fruit can be made into jelly.
He knows the names of flowers I've never noticed, the habits of lizards that dart between rocks.
His voice softens when he talks about the desert, revealing a side of him I've rarely seen.
"It's all about adaptation," he says, gesturing toward a small, scraggly bush. "Everything out here has to fight to survive. They develop thorns, thick skin, and ways to store water. They change themselves to fit this place."
It’s almost as if I can hear a double meaning in his words.
"And if they can't adapt?" I ask.
"Then they die," he says as his eyes meet mine, something sad and knowing in them.
We stay much longer than we need to as Frankie finds more things to show me.
It feels like he is trying to find more reasons to delay our return.
He buys me an ice cream at a small roadside stand and insists we stop for gas even though the tank is nearly full.
He even takes a "shortcut" that adds twenty minutes to our drive.
"You don't want to go back," I say finally, watching his profile as he drives. It's not a question.
"It doesn't matter what I want. I have an obligation," he says as his jaw tightens.
"It matters to me."
"Don't," he says as he glances at me, then back at the road.
"Don't what?"
"Don't make this harder than it already is." His voice is tight. "What happened last night…it shouldn't have happened that way."
"But it did," I say, anger flaring hot in my chest. "You can't just pretend it didn't."
"I'm not pretending anything, Datura," he says, the nickname sending a shiver down my spine despite my anger. "And I won’t say I regret it because I don’t and I never will…but you will, I promise you that. The wedding…."
His voice trails off and the reminder hits me like a slap to my face. One week. In seven days I will belong to a stranger. Seven days until whatever this is between Frankie and me becomes impossible.
"And then what?" I ask, my voice sounding smaller than I intend. "You just go back to being my guard? Watching me with my husband?"
He half-scoffs, half-laughs as his hands tighten on the wheel again, but he doesn't answer. I turn back to the window and watch everything outside blur past my window…beautiful, harsh and unforgiving. Just like the reality waiting for us back at the estate.