I meet her gaze in the mirror.She holds the bottle of lotion.I shrug.
“I can… is there a cream or ointment I can put on your back for you?”
The concern in her clear blue eyes punches me in the gut.If she hadn’t lied to her father, I wouldn’t have these scars, but if she didn’t know her father attacked me because of them—which is what all her recent reactions point to—then her guilt may be genuine.
“No.There’s nothing,” I lie.
Tears glisten on her lashes, but she nods and returns the lotion to the shelves.Guilt slices deep in my chest, but I push it away and slide the hair product to her.
She works a dollop into her locks without even glancing at the bottle but pauses midmotion and looks up.The accusation in her eyes tempts the beast within me.
“This is what I always use.So were the shampoo, conditioner, and soap.”
I lean my face into hers and smirk.
“I told you I was always watching you, didn’t I,paperotta?”I growl.
A flurry of emotions flips through her expression.She surprises me when she relaxes her shoulders, nods, and continues threading her fingers through her wet hair.
“Does that mean you also know I dye my hair?”she challenges.
I pause and study her scalp.
Of course she dyes her hair.She looks stunning as a brunette, but she had naturally light golden blonde hair, just like her mother’s, growing up.
Her maid at home never reported hair dye on the grocery list, her salon treatments never included coloring, and I never saw her dying her hair in the hotel room, so I brushed it off.
Why is she telling me this now?
The skeptical part of me demands she’s scheming, even though she looks a hairsbreadth away from passing out from exhaustion.
By the intensity behind her droopy eyes, she has a reason for asking.
“Why does it matter what you do with your hair?”I snarl.
Her unhinged laughter lifts the hairs on my nape.
“So you know everything else about me, but don’t wonder why I dye my hair, wear hideous nightgowns, or sleep with a knife under my pillow?”The humor drains from her face, and she delivers her next words completely deadpan.“Some stalker you are.I’m tired.Goodnight.”
I grab her wrist as she tries to walk around me.
“You are not going to pitch a fit and then go sulk in my bed,” I growl.
She grits her teeth, takes a long, measured inhale through her nose, then pastes on the fakest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Of course not,mio marito.I won’t be sulking; I’ll be sleeping.Please kindly release my arm,” she says in the most saccharine voice possible.
I wrap my hand around her throat.She instinctively grabs my wrist.Her pulse leaps against my digits and her pupils shrink.I open my mouth to warn her, but she drops her fists to her sides and speaks with emotions swimming in her eyes.
“I choseyou, Mario.Ichoseyou.”With anger in every gesture, she points to herself and then to my chest as though I don’t understand, “Ichoseyou.”She takes a deep breath and steps back before holding her arms out beside her.“This is it.My one decision.There’s no going back.I have no ulterior motives.I’ve given you everything, and now I’m going to sleep.”
She turns and stomps toward the bedroom.I don’t try to stop her.Water drips from her hair and rolls down her shapely ass.My cock stirs, but the bruise on her hip and the disappointment hidden in her words dull my arousal.
She stumbles.I reach for her, but she catches herself on the doorframe, sends an angry glare over her shoulder at me, and pushes herself upright.When she shuffles to the bed, gets under the covers, and falls asleep within seconds, I wonder if my hatred blinded me to the truth.
I want to believe her, but I prowl across the space on silent feet and loom over her.
Once I confirm she’s truly asleep, I run my hands over my face and shake my head.
