Page 151 of Thorns of Death

Turning on the shower, I quickly shed my clothes and jumped in it. I was washing off the soap when the bathroom door swung open.

“Fuck, Marchetti, get your ass in here.”

It took me two seconds to wrap a towel around me and get to Isla’s bedside. She was convulsing on the bed, whimpering. The white bandages on her arms started to turn red. Kian and her brother tried to hold her still, but the more they tried, the worse she shook.

Shoving them out of the way, I took her small body and cradled her.

“Piccolina,” I murmured, pulling her closer to my chest. She instantly stilled. When she turned her head and pressed her face to my chest, I thought I heard my heart crack. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

“Is it you?” They were the first words she had spoken since the rescue. Her voice was raspy.

“It’s me,” I confirmed, my voice coming out strangled. “Sleep and get better.”

“Don’t leave.”

Tears stung my eyes. My fingers trembled as I pushed her ginger curls away from her forehead.

“Never. I’m never leaving you.”

* * *

A week had gone by.

We were lyng in our bed, in our bedroom, fresh from a shower, our bodies still damp from it. She didn’t seem to mind and I certainly didn’t. It wrapped me up into her scent like a cocoon, making me feel alive again. Except, she kept hiding her body from me, wearing baggy clothes that covered most of her skin.

She was slowly coming back to herself. To me. She smelled like my woman. Like coconuts and the beach. Except for the ghosts that seemed to lurk in her expression whenever I caught her lost in thought.

The waves crashed against the shoreline and seagulls squawked over the horizon, the sound finally lulling her to sleep, her mouth pressed in a thin line and her head against my chest. My strong, beautiful wife.

I could see her renewed strength in the color of her cheeks. In the fading of her bruises. In the healing of her cuts. But her mind still suffered. She had nightmares. She clung to me as she fought her demons, and it gutted me that I failed her at that too. I wanted to keep her safe from the darkness in this world. Yet I felt helpless as she thrashed in my arms.

All I could do was whisper soft words to her. Anything to help ease her fears.

A soft knock rang out before the door opened. My sons’ dark heads appeared, and I motioned them in. They visited Isla every day. Sometimes they’d catch her awake and other times, like now, she was asleep.

“Is she better, Papà?” Enzo’s voice was full of anguish. He felt like he’d failed her. He blamed himself for not waiting for her to make it to the safe room.

“She is,” I told him softly. “She asked about you two earlier.”

Amadeo’s eyes lit up. “Davvero?”

I nodded. “Sì.”

“She doesn’t hate us?” Amadeo asked, the vulnerable expression on his face matching his voice.

I opened my mouth to answer when Isla’s soft voice responded instead. “Never. I couldneverhate you.”

All three of us looked down at her, her cheek pressed against my chest. She shifted and I hurried to help her, hating seeing any sign of pain on her face.

“Thanks,” she murmured, giving me a smile that could bring me to my knees.

“Of course,amore.”

Her eyes found Enzo and Amadeo, her small hand—still slightly bruised—reaching for them. Both of them took care not to hurt her.

“We left you to them. You must hate us.”

She shook her head.