Chapter Thirty-Six
Zahra
Elio Marino was wearing white.
Although that wasn’t the subject matter here, it was just one interesting fact. The man had been entirely unashamed, walking into the bedroom he knew I was in, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, with wet hair, which he towel-dried right in front of me.
His body—fuck me sideways and back—he was rough, invisible scars covered by ink, taut muscles built from pure hard labor and, well—the gym?
But it really didn’t look like gym muscles or sex muscles.
From every rip in his arms to his defined-as-fuck stomach, there was something intricate about each flex as he moved.
And that particular thing pushed me into a trance-like state, staring at him when he turned to find new clothes. His broad back and shoulders flexed erotically as he moved to slip strong legs and thighs into black sweatpants.
Another thing that caught my attention was his tattoos. I had always been curious about where the ink flame led, but I found out today, and …
It had me feeling wary.
A well-detailed drawing of burning flames drove up his forearm and shoulders, over to his neck, and then half his chest. I caught something like a church tower and a crucifix sign above—at first, I didn’t realize it, but then I noticed the fire was aflame in the church, and when he turned, my stomach dipped.
The Chinese he had ordered had threatened to come back out of my mouth; even the raspberry I was currently munching on temporarily became unappetizing.
It was a drawing of three faces amidst the flame. Hollow eyes wide with tears streaming down sunken cheeks, mouths wide open in a wail. The three faces seemed to float between the fire—a little boy, a young girl, and a woman.
I was so caught in it that I had to blink my thoughts back in order when he slid an oversized white sweater on, covering the tattoos.
Then without looking my way, he went to the dresser, dried his hair a little bit, and then brushed it down. Seeing him in another color of clothing was—strange; it didn’t seem like him, but I wouldn’t lie and say that he didn’t look good.
Honestly, I would have preferred him without anything. One reason was that he was pleasant to look at, and the other was because I wanted to study the ink on him. I felt like if I kept looking, I’d find something new to give me further insight into the story behind those faces.
I took my mind off him, glancing at the calm darkness outside the window in the room.
Last I’d checked the time, it was almost 12:30 A.M.
Elio had been reading while I ate the food he had ordered for me, and when he decided to shower, I decided to retire into the room with a bowl of raspberries.
I shifted on the bed, leaning against the headboard, wearing a white shirt with writing on the front. I had found it folded in the dresser, amongst other mundane things that didn’t scream the Elio Marino I had gotten used to.
Underneath, I wore a pair of his boxer briefs, my legs on full display as I ate.
I could tell someone had dropped by to clean up the place and stock up the fridge, meaning he had spent time planning this whole thing, but I didn’t comment. Commenting on it would have made it seem real. It would have made me acknowledge that he had put in effort … for me.
I backtracked as he walked towards the bed, phone in hand, before he pulled the duvet to one side, attempting to lie down.
I swallowed the last raspberry I had taken in, eyeing his movements as he settled beside me on the bed. “Uh … what are you doing?”
He pushed the duvet further down with his legs. “What do people do on beds?”
“They—”
“Either sleep, get intimate, or just relax. The last option is what I’m doing,” he said, settling into the pillow, about to use his phone.
“Won’t you at least be a gentleman and take the couch?”
He turned to look at me for the first time since he came out of that bathroom. “Why, in all consciousness of the mind, would I take the couch when there’s a bed?”
I shifted the bowl of raspberries towards me. “Because I’m on the bed?”
“Oh…” he said, blinking at me while trailing off as if thinking deeply. “I have no problem sharing a bed with you. It is big enough to accommodate two people, but I understand if you have a problem sharing a bed. You can take the couch.”
My jaw dropped, and I laughed lightly. “I seriously don’t understand you. Pick a side. Are you a gentleman or an asshole? Stop confusing me.”
He pursed his lips, eyes searching mine before he moved, raising himself to my level, as he propped up on one elbow, now facing me fully.
He reached for a raspberry in the bowl, watching me while he put it into his mouth, tongue collecting it first before it disappeared inside his mouth and he chewed delicately.
A little thump made itself known between my legs, and I pressed them together and shifted as I looked from his lips to his eyes, quenching the thought of wanting to kiss him.
“I am not an asshole. I am just very straightforward. The sooner you learn the difference between the two, the better,” he said, dropping his phone in the tiny space between us.
“Why are you so comfortable sharing a bed with me?” I asked. “Aren’t you wary I’d hurt you in your sleep?”
“No.”
“Why?”
His shoulders moved. “I won’t sleep. So it’s useless worrying about a situation I can control.”
I picked up another raspberry, watching him while I chewed.
The man didn’t take his eyes off me either, and I could tell there were questions within their depths.
But I knew I needed to ask him questions before getting into character.
“I thought you only wore black because you despise other colors?”
“Hm.” He nodded. “When I’m in the compound, yes.
Outside the compound, I do whatever I desire.
I also like to collect items I’ll never wear, like the shirt you’re wearing.
This sweater, though, was a birthday gift from Angelo’s mother.
I liked it. I kept it. Now I’m wearing it,” he said, reaching for another berry.
“When’s your birthday?” I asked him, genuinely curious.
“December first. When’s yours?”
I didn’t think he’d ask, but then again, he had been behaving suspiciously since I got on that plane.
“I’m surprised you don’t know … since you’re supposed to have run a background check on me.”
“Hm. We did run one, but now I’m asking. I want you to tell me.”
I nodded. “It’s January third, according to certificates and documents I’ve seen; I don’t know how true it is.”
He watched me.
“What? Did you see a different date when you ran your check?”
He shook his head. “No.”
I looked away from him to the bowl. It was quiet for about ten seconds before I broke the silence.
“Can I ask a question?”
“I thought we were already doing that,” Elio responded, still watching me.
He got more comfortable, shifting closer to me, his chin on his palm, his gaze unnerving. The same way it had been on the plane when he looked up for the first time.
Like he was in awe.
No one had ever looked at me like that.
Whenever Manuel looked at me, all I saw was controlled obsession, lust, care, and anger.
There was also lust in Elio’s stare, but that wasn’t really what was shown. It was something else.
He looked at me like I was something shiny and new, something worth looking at. The awe in his eyes didn’t exactly spell care, but it gave the definition of wonder and curiosity. Like he wanted to know me, sink into my head, and decipher my thoughts gradually.
He looked at me like I was the only thing in this room that could keep his attention.
Those eyes, intense and beautiful, looked so soft right now. It made me want to confide in him, tell him every secret I’d kept hidden since I could make sense of this world. I knew he wouldn’t judge; I knew he would listen.
But I still held back. I was willing to give him my body and nothing else.
“I’m listening, Sport; ask your question.”
The space was warm between us, and I could hear him breathing, just as I was sure he heard me.
“I couldn’t help but notice your tattoos. Are those your family?”
“Yes.” He answered with no subtle blink to show he was lying, no hesitation, no hiding; he just blurted it like he was prepared for my questions.
“Your mom—I thought you stabbed her to death; why was she in the fire?”
“Because she was.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand, didn’t you—kill her?”
He didn’t respond; he just stared.
I bit my bottom lip, rephrasing my statement and testing a theory I had about him. He never responded to assumptions. Only questions.
“Did you stab your mother to death?” I asked.
“No.”
I pressed more with another question. “Did she burn in that fire?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. “Why did you set them on fire?”
No response.
I realized I had assumed while asking the question—this man.
“Did you do it? Did you kill your family?”
He swallowed, eyes searching mine as the silence after I’d asked that question lengthened.
I knew he wasn’t taking his time because he was thinking of a lie.
The look in those tormented eyes told me he wouldn’t like to continue this topic of conversation.
I was about to tell him it was okay until he spoke.
“No. I didn’t kill my family.” His voice sounded gruffer, deeper, rough.
It sent a pang straight to my chest.
“Then why don’t you tell people the truth?”
“No one has ever asked.”
I had the strongest urge to shift even closer to him. “So … why do you tell people that you did.”
His jaw clenched and unclenched. “I have never told anyone I killed my family, Zahra.”
“Why does everyone think—”
“My father. He created the narrative to protect his image and build mine, rumors turned to rumors, and I became—the monster who went wild after a year in the army and killed my family the day I got back just because I’d found out they weren’t exactly my family.
My mother had been a whore and a cheater who sold out family secrets.
So, I burned them all in a fit of rage, and I’d do it again to anyone who is a threat to our family name,” he said.