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“From what? From realizing that I’m a monster? A murderer?” Her voice is soft, yet bitterness vibrates from her words.
“See, that’s exactly why I chose not to tell you. I knew the guilt would be too much for you to handle.”
A dark chuckle rolls from her lips. “Why does everyone think I’m drowning in guilt? Because I’m not. I have the blood of two men and my own brother on my hands, but guilt is not what’s suffocating me. It’s the fact that I don’t feel guilt that scares me. The fact that I might be a psychopath. A monster.”
“You’re not a monster,” I say, reaching for her and tilting her head back with my fingers below her chin. “You demanded justice, Mira. You didn’t kill because you wanted to. You killed because you had to.”
She presses her cherry-red lips into a thin line. “I didn’t have to kill Marco.”
“Yes, you did,” I reply, brushing the back of my hand across her jaw. “He cost you your life. He took everything away from the four-year-old you. If you didn’t kill him that night, I would have.”
“Your intentions don’t justify my actions. Just like our need for revenge doesn’t justify you going around killing people.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.” She slides her hands underneath my unbuttoned shirt, gently easing it over and off my shoulders. “If I were a good wife, a good woman, I would tell you to stop. If my soul was light,” she continues, her nails brushing down my naked arms, “I would fear the darkness that’s consuming you, demanding blood. But I don’t.” Her eyes meet mine. “I don’t fear it, Nicoli.”
“Why?”
“Because that same darkness consumes me, too.” She takes my hand and places my palm on her chest, the silk of her blouse soft beneath my fingers. “I feel it in here, the same need, the same justice to see Nunzio pay for what he did to us.”
“To you.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Us. What he did, he did to us. You’re hurting just like me, Nicoli.”
“What I’m feeling is nothing compared to what he did to you.”
“Stop,” she urges, letting go of my hand to cup my cheek as her green irises stare straight into my soul. “Yes, I have the memories. The nightmares. But you have the uncertainty, trying to figure out what I had been through and how deep my scars go, and sometimes not knowing is worse than knowing.”
I take a deep breath, feeling her words slice through me like a hot knife. “I just want to protect you, Mira.”
“I know,” she murmurs, leaning up to kiss me gently on the lips. “I love you so much, Nicoli. Please, love me the way you used to.”
I swallow her words, kissing her softly but with purpose, hoping she’ll be able to feel that which I can’t put into words. That she can feel what she is to me, how she’s not just my heart and my air, she’s the life in my soul, and without her I’ll be…nothing.
I watch as Mira’s eyes scan my bloodied body, her gaze flickering with a mix of concern and something else, something darker. Her lips part slightly as she takes in the sight of me, the man who’d do anything for her.
She eases back, and I groan in protest, not nearly done kissing her.
Taking my hand, she looks down at the cuts. “You did this for me.”
“For us.”
“Good,” she whispers, once again meeting my gaze. “Because what I want right now is for you to take this anger and rage and channel it into something… primal.”
My heart races at the implication of her words, the hunger in her eyes reflecting my own insatiable appetite for destruction. Then, I realize how deeply we’re entwined in this twisted dance of vengeance and desire. We’ve become monsters forged in the fires of our shared pain.
“Are you sure, Mira?” I ask, even though I know the answer before she speaks.
“More than anything,” she replies, her voice thick with need. “Let me feel your power, Nicoli. Show me how far you’re willing to go for us.”
“Anything,” I promise, my resolve solidifying as I pull her close, the lines between love and revenge blurring together in one intoxicating moment. “Everything.”
“Good. But first, let me take care of you,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the pounding of my own heartbeat. She reaches out, her fingers brushing against the dried blood clinging to my skin.
With her fingers weaved through mine, we walk into the ensuite bathroom, the scent of my wife’s perfume lingering in the air—sweet and sensual, a smell I could easily drown in.
My dick is already hard when she starts to unbuckle my belt, her soft hands brushing against my stomach, sending jolts of electricity through me. Her deft fingers touch the sensitive tip, and I close my eyes as I snarl through the surge of lust that grips my balls so fucking tight.
