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My hands are still fisted in his shirt when my legs give out.
It happens without warning. One second I’m standing, the next my knees buckle, and I’m sliding down the wall with nothing to catch me but gravity and the sudden, sickening realization that I have nothing left.
No anger. No fight. Just the hollow, shaking aftermath of everything.
Domenico moves before I fully go down. His arms are around me, and then we’re both on the floor, his back against the wall, me pulled tight against his chest. One hand cradles the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and the other arm locks around my waist, holding me against him like he’s afraid I might dissolve.
I don’t dissolve. I sob. Great, heaving, ugly sobs that come from somewhere so deep I didn’t know it existed. I press my face into his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and strong, and the contrast between his calm and my collapse makes me cry harder.
“I can’t,” I gasp between sobs. I want to tell him that I can’t keep living like this, but the relentless sobs make it impossible to speak. So I stop trying and just shake against him.
His hand strokes my hair. Slow. Even. It’s the kind of touch that says I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard you fall apart.
“I will always protect you.” His voice is low, rough against the top of my head. “I will always control security around you. I will always make the decisions my position requires.” A pause. His fingers tighten in my hair. “But you’re right. You should know about the things that directly concern you.”
The admission lands like something fragile. I hold my breath for a beat, afraid it might shatter if I move.
“Yes, I should,” I sniffle.
“It’s a two-way street, Kira,” he murmurs. “You need to stand up for yourself, for the things you want. I’m not a goddamn mind reader. If you don’t speak up, how am I meant to know what you want?”
“I want…” I have to stop. Swallow. Try again. “I want you to tell me if you won’t be home for dinner.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to tell me when you’re leaving our bed in the middle of the night. Instead of me waking up and finding you gone.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want us to live completely separate lives.” The words come easier now, tumbling out in the order I told them to Carly over pasta and lemonade. “I like talking to you, it makes me feel like we’re actually…” I trail off, not sure how to finish.
“A married couple,” Domenico finishes for me. His voice is gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “Not like you’re a tenant in my house.”
The accuracy of it makes my chest ache. I nod against his shirt.
“And if I’m going to come home to something like Greg again, could you warn me first?”
Domenico’s hand stills briefly against my hair. “Something like Greg?”
“Someone beaten and bloody in our home,” I say, my voice wobbling. “I know that’s part of your world, and I’m not asking you to pretend it isn’t. I just… I don’t want to walk into it without knowing what I’m about to see.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Emboldened by his agreement, I continue. “And I want you to stop keeping me ignorant about decisions affecting me and Mom.” This one hurts the most. Fresh tears well up, hot and sudden. “You let me sit in that hospital for weeks thinking I had no say, when the whole time, the say was mine. You just hadn’t bothered to tell me.”
His arm tightens around my waist. “I am sorry for that.” The words are rough. Unpracticed. Like he’s saying them in a language he’s still learning. “That was a mistake. I should have told you.”
“It was.” I press my forehead harder against his chest. “But you still did it. You still took her away from him.”
“Without hesitation.”
“I know.” I close my eyes.
The realization is unfolding slowly, warming something cold in my chest. That’s the difference, isn’t it? My dad used control to take power from me. He used Mom’s care as leverage. He made sure I knew exactly how little say I had, because that’s how he kept me where he wanted me.
