Page 84 of Bitter Poetry

Brigida mumbles something and flees the kitchen. The door rattles into the jamb in her wake.

Christian saunters over. His footsteps make a light tap against the tiled floor. “Ready to go?”

I stare blankly at my half-drunk coffee, my thoughts scattered, my heart beating like a drum.

He’s right beside me. Sometimes, I hate how much larger he is than me and his obvious strength, and sometimes, it offers a warped form of comfort. Today, it produces jitters under my skin.

“Yes,” I mumble, pushing the chair back.

He doesn’t make enough space for me, forcing me to brush past him.

“You smell good,” he says, lips intimately close to my ear.

My shiver is entirely involuntary. His low, husky chuckle tells me he noticed.

He finally steps back. “After you, babe.”

“Don’t call me that,” I hiss, making the mistake of meeting his eyes.

This close, there can be no delusions about what has happened to him, nor can I pass this off. His face is littered with fading bruises; one eye is a shade of yellow-purple. He looks a mess.

Like someone beat him.

I can only imagine the parts of him that I cannot see.

Just an occupational hazard? Or is this my doing?

Those eyes I can’t tear my gaze from give me the answer. My words made this happen as surely as if I had landed the blows myself.

I want to cry, to beg forgiveness, to say I’m fucking sorry.

He smirks, and then the mocking humor in his eyes is wiped out like the flipping of a switch. “After you, Mrs. Gallo.”

Damn him for always knowing my weak spots and using them to effect.

“What? Don’t like that one either? That’s a shame, being as it’s your name, Mrs. Gallo.”

How could I miss him when he’s such an asshole to me.

I turn away, heading out the kitchen door that leads into the hallway.

“You smell aroused.”

A hot, languid pulse kicks off low in my womb knowing he’s looking at me.

I wish it wouldn’t.

I wish I loved my husband, that I enjoyed his hands on me and his cock inside me.

The truth?

I think about Christian whenever Ettore touches me.

Or Dante.

Only that’s another minefield.

It’s not healthy. I hate Christian ninety percent of the time—I hate Dante more—but they do provide an excellent source of escapism material. Thinking about them is better than the alternative. If I actually acknowledged what was happening when my husband was inside me, I’d do something really stupid.