Page 81 of Wounded King

He doesn't respond, only stares at the wall. I don't know what to make of his silence. Is he angry with me?

"You didn't have to come." Sometimes I hate my tongue. In times like this, it seems like it has a mind of its own, or maybe none at all, because if it had a mind, it wouldn't have blurted these words out.

He turns to me. His hand reaches for me, and his knuckles land underneath my chin as he props it gently up, forcing me to look at him. "I will always come for you, tesoro."

His use of the endearment nearly brings me to tears. They burn in my eyes because I read the truth of his statement in his.

"I hurt you. I'm sorry."

"You had your reasons." He responds as his eyes burn into mine. "I can't say they weren't valid."

I pull my lower lip between my teeth, in part to keep my traitorous tongue in check and in part because I need to feel the pain to distract me from my constricting throat and the ache in my heart.

The elevator finally stops, and the doors slide open. The familiar surroundings of the anteroom, with the guards, feel like coming home. I even know the names of the two men stationed by the door. They nod at me, recognizing me at once, too.

"Miss Violet," Hugo greets me.

"How is the rash?" I ask him.

"Rash?" Marcello queries.

"You were right, Miss Violet. It was the laundry soap. The wife switched it back, and presto, no more rash."

"Oh, good. I love it when I'm right." I grin at him.

Shaking his head, Marcello leads me into the penthouse. "Do you treat all my men?"

"Only when they obviously need something," I respond with a small grin. Hugo hadn't exactly asked me for my expertise, but it would have been hard not to notice the red blotches on his hand and the way he was rubbing his back against the wall—like a shedding bear. So yeah, I might have overstepped and chatted with him.

His eyes darken, and he pulls me into his chest. "Losing you was never an option."

His words sear through me like a flame. I sling my arms around his waist and hold on to him for dear life.

"I missed you," I admit.

He laughs bitterly. "Not as much as I you."

"Well, it's about time you two came to your senses," Zia Rosa emerges from the kitchen like an avenging demon from hell. I've seen her temper rise and her fury turn on the men. So far, it has never been directed at me, but right now, I could swear there is steam coming from her nostrils. Involuntarily, I shrink closer to Marcello.

"Zia Rosa," I greet her, but my voice is quivering.

"Don't you Zia Rosa me, young lady. If you ever put my dear boy through this kind of misery again, I'll poison your food."

"Zia Rosa," Marcello barks.

"It's true. Look at you. You haven't eaten since she left. Bah, you're barely a skeleton."

"Zia Rosa, that's enough," Marcello warns.

"Bah, enough.Idecide when it's enough. What do you have to say in your defense, young lady?"

"I'm… sorry," I whisper. I swear, she's more formidable than a nun with a ruler. Especially holding the feared kitchen towel.

"Not to me."

"Zia Rosa," Marcello's voice turns cold; his discomfort should have made me giggle, but Zia Rosa is putting the fear of God in me.

"No, she's right. I'm sorry. To both of you. I got scared," I apologize.