23. Adriana #2
"I don't know," he admits quietly. "I don't know if I can ever really be free of it. But I can try. For you. For him. For the life we were supposed to have."
I feel my heart crack open, and I pull him closer, my arms wrapping around his neck, my face buried in his shoulder. He holds me tight, his hands on my back, and we stand there in the doorway, clinging to each other like we're the only solid things in a world that's falling apart.
"I need to clean up," I whisper eventually, pulling back. "I need to—I can't think right now. I just need a minute."
"Take all the time you need," Lachlan says, and he presses a kiss to my forehead. "I'll be here."
I walk into the bathroom and close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment as I try to catch my breath. My reflection in the mirror is a disaster, my hair tangled and dirty, my clothes filthy from the safe house. I look like I've been through a war.
I suppose I have.
I turn on the shower, letting the water heat up, and I strip off my clothes, dropping them in a heap on the floor.
The steam fills the bathroom, and I step under the spray, trying to wash away the memory of tonight, the fear and the violence and the terrible moment when I thought I was going to lose everything.
But the water can't wash away the images burned into my mind. Matteo with that gun. The look in his eyes. The way his hands shook as he aimed it at Gio.
The way Lachlan shot first, saving our son from becoming a killer.
I press my hands against the tile wall, my head bowed, and I let myself cry.
And then I hear the door open.
"Adriana." Lachlan's voice is soft. "Can I come in?"
I don't answer. I just reach out and push the glass shower door open, and he's standing there, still fully clothed, his eyes finding mine with a plea in them. He wants me to let him be here for me.
And I want that, too.
"Please," I whisper, and it's all the invitation he needs.
He strips quickly, and then he steps into the shower with me, his hands on my waist, pulling me against him. The water streams over both of us, and I can feel the heat of his skin, the solid strength of his body.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his hands moving to my hair. "Let me take care of you."
Slowly, he turns me so that I'm facing away from him, and starts to wash my hair, working his fingers through the tangles. I close my eyes and let him. His hands are gentle as he washes my hair, then my face, then my body. It's not sexual, not yet. It's just tender.
We've never been able to take care of each other. I imagined this, the way I imagined so many other things—the fantasy of us running away together that night, me tending to him in the shower, patching him up, us holding each other close.
Now he's doing it for me, and when he's done, I take the soap from him and return the favor, my hands moving over his chest, his arms, his back. I can feel the tension in his muscles, and I want to ease that burden, give him the same comfort he's giving me.
"We're going to be okay," I whisper, my hands sliding up to his shoulders. "Aren't we?"
"We're going to be okay," he echoes. "I promise you, Adriana. We're going to build the life we were supposed to have. It won't be easy, and it won't be perfect, but we're going to do it. Together."
"Together," I repeat. The word feels more meaningful than the hasty wedding vows, as much so as that night when he promised me someday. And I believe, looking at him, that he means this, now, just as much.
He used violence to make someday come true. And now he'll have to learn peace, so we can be together.
His mouth finds mine in a slow, deep kiss. It's apology and forgiveness and hope and desperation all tangled together, and I kiss him back with everything I have, pouring ten years of longing and pain and love into it.
The water is still streaming over us, but I barely notice. All I can feel is him—his hands on my body, his mouth on mine. "I need you," I whisper against his lips. My hands move down his chest, over his hard stomach, down to his harder cock. "I need to feel you. I need to know this is real."
"It's real," he breathes. He turns me so my back is against the tile wall, and he brings my leg up around his hip, his stiff length nudging against me. "I'm real. This is real. We're real."
When he pushes inside me, I gasp, my head falling back against the wall. It's not rough or desperate like it's been before. It's slow and deliberate, every thrust purposeful, like he's trying to memorize the feel of me, the way we fit together.
"Adriana." His forehead is pressed against mine, his eyes locked on mine. "I love you. I've always loved you. I will always love you."
"I love you too," I whisper. "I love you, Lachlan. I love you so much."
He kisses me again, and we move together, the water streaming over us, washing away the past and leaving only this moment, this love that's survived ten years of separation and pain and violence.
He rocks into me, building my orgasm slowly, and when I come around him, he closes his mouth over mine and shudders, throbbing inside of me as he fills me up at the same time.
When we finally step out of the shower, Lachlan wraps a towel around me, drying me off. Then he lifts me into his arms and carries me to the bed, laying me down on the soft sheets.
The room is dark except for the faint glow of the city lights through the window, and I watch as he climbs into bed beside me, his body warm and solid against mine.
"I meant what I said," he murmurs, his hand resting on my hip. "I'm done putting you and Matteo in danger. I'm out. This life served the purpose I needed it to. It's time to start a new one."
His hand moves to my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "I know exactly where I belong. Right here. With you. With him. Building the life we were supposed to have."
And for the first time in ten years, I let myself believe in someday.