I carry her bridal-style into my room, bypassing Maria and Nico’s concerned looks. I can’t tell them what happened, not yet. I’ll fucking lose my mind. And right now, I need to focus on Sloane’s wellbeing.
Entering the bathroom, I place her on the counter, turning to the soaking tub, throwing every kind of bubble bath imaginable into the hot water. I’m sure that was Maria’s contribution to Sloane’s arrival. She always wanted a daughter.
I glance back to my wife, seeing the far-off look. She’s hunkering into herself, avoiding the trauma. My wife will fight for anything, fight anyone, but when things get too real, she runs.
She’s hiding from me, now.
That won’t do.
Grabbing her chin, I make her eyes lock with mine.
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
She shrugs limply. “Nothing. Just numb.”
I tilt my head, studying her. Things fall into place rapidly. “Does that happen often? The numbness?”
She sighs, body deflating, nose sniffling as the room fills with steam. She bites her bottom lip, debating on answering.
How little does anyone ask her if she’s alright? Or do they see her mask, the party-girl persona and assume that’s all she is? Sloane is so much more than that superficial woman. She can offer so much more to this world.
“It does. Not as much in these last few weeks.”
The giant map begins to take shape, everything leading me to view the beautiful picture of Sloane.
Her refusal to release me until we were somewhere safe. Her need to be accepted. The party-girl routine that the tabloids love to exploit.
Tucking a strand behind her ear, I marvel over the smoothness of her skin and curse the gloves I wear.
“You used to go out, do things for attention to drive out the numbness.” My thumb plucks her bottom lip. Even without the lipstick, it’s still a bright red. “Looking for stimuli, anything taboo, to force it away. Because if you were stimulated, you felt something. Not numbness.”
“It worked sometimes,” she says quietly, wrapping her arms around her chest. “Sometimes it wouldn’t come back for weeks. But it always did.”
Understanding curls around my heart and I swallow, fighting the urge to crush her lips to mine. To help her push that numbness away. To give her whatever she needed to stay out of that dark place.
“After my accident, I was numb for quite a long time too, menace.”
She blinks, my shared secret drawing her back from the edge.
“If you let me take care of you, I’ll tell you all about it. I’ll even remove these.” I hold up my hands. “Right now, I need you to fight against the numbness, just like you fight everything. I need you to fight and choose me, Sloane.”
She doesn’t protest as I remove her turtleneck and jeans, the steam making our skin sticky with perspiration.
My hands reach her demure lacy white bra and matching panties. “Can I?”
Inhaling to steady herself, she nods, letting me kneel to remove her clothing.
This is completely new for her, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to how beautiful she is. How slick with sweat, her softness calls to me, how her red hair is a beacon in the steam makes me want to consume her fully.
I can’t. I want to take care of her and that’s what I’ll do.
With impersonal fingers, I discard her bra, picking her up to place her in the tub. Bubbles surround her, the overwhelming scent of roses making my cock twitch. It’s just like her perfume.
Sloane looks good in there. I rarely ever used the tub in this massive bath. Gleaming white tiles, and hanging plants make the space feel more like a spa than a bedroom ensuite. The large soaking tub was just another fixture until Sloane came into my life.
Now, I’ll insist on a bath every night.
“Aren’t you coming in?” she asks, voice innocent.
I swallow, rare nerves showing in my discomfort.
Getting into the tub means showing my wife all my scars. So far, I’ve been able to avoid this. I wanted to wait until she was completely mine, when the thoughts of running weren’t at the forefront of our relationship. Because if she chose me, she’d choose the scars and not be repulsed like so many others.
This is sooner than I wanted. Sooner than expected.
But if she’s feeling vulnerable, exposed, then I can meet her halfway.
“I need you to understand something,” I say, unbuttoning my dress shirt. Her eyes are glued to my fingers. “When I was eight, my home in Lucca caught on fire. My entire family, my mother and baby sister, were killed in one night and I barely survived.” My shirt is half done, right above where the scars start.
She licks her lips, seeing the black rose that’s inked at the base of my neck. The mark of a De Luca man, who gave his life to the family, to this organization. I got branded when I was eighteen.
“I spent weeks in the burn unit at the hospital, Sloane.” I watch her, take in the soapy water, how fucking silken her body looks, how open she seems. I focus on that and not my grief. “My face wasn’t touched but the rest of my body? That’s a different story.”
The shirt drops to the ground, and she inhales sharply. It echoes in my ears.
Ragged, angry scars dance across my toned abdomen, patches of grafted skin pulled together with doctor ingenuity and prayers. There’s lines, mended holes, and seared flesh healed and re-healed over the years since.
It’s a patchwork of hope and near-death experience. Of long nights lying awake crying in pain, of total blackness when the pain completely consumed me that only unconsciousness would end it. Of Nico, standing in the corner, never leaving my side as I slowly came back to the land of the living.
I don’t look at her as I remove my pants.
Like my stomach, my legs are a crisscross pattern of hunkered, ruined flesh, some stippled, other parts indented where muscle was scooped away.
My back is similar where the flames dropped on to me when the roof fell. I never knew, adrenaline so high that I never felt the weight.
Holding up my hands, I finally look at her eyes. I expected disgust, pity.
All I see is something I’ve only dared to hope for in my dreams. Compassion.
“My hands are the worst. They were afraid I wouldn’t have full mobility.”
The leather is dropped into the growing pile of clothes.
Small scars over the thin skin of my joints and knuckles pull taunt, pain radiating up my arms. “They’re called burn contractures. Pretty common. I had to do rounds of physical therapy to keep movement. I wear the gloves for support.”
Without them, my hands cramp and freeze, pain almost debilitating.
Sloane nods, taking my hands into her slender ones. My cock bobs, trying to make its presence known, but when she kisses my left hand, lips softly caressing every digit, my mind scatters.
Only Maria, Nico, and Tony have seen my hands. And now Sloane. And she’s kissing my wounds, like a lioness licking her king’s pain away.
“Get in.”
I follow her without question, submerging behind her, the bubble sloshing over the side onto the white tiles below.
She snuggles into my hold, her hair tickling my bare chest.
“I’m glad you survived, Lex.”
It’s the first time someone’s said that to me. It’s the first time I’ve believed it.
“Me too.”
