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She didn’t respond.
He reached in, his arm getting wet as he tilted her face to his. She had dark smudges under her eyes and was very pale, but her eyes weren’t red. She wasn’t crying. He wished she would because the vacant look in her eyes was far worse.
Instead of trying to get her out, he went in. Heedless of his clothes, he sat down next to her, close enough so she could feel his presence, but not close enough to touch her. Then he talked. He talked until the water turned cold, wrapping a warm towel around her from the heated towel rack. She didn’t move, she didn’t so much as twitch. He wasn’t even sure she was hearing him. But still, he talked.
He spoke of his mother and her beautiful garden. He spoke of how he and Abel had met when they were eight years old, when Abel’s mother had joined the household as a maid. He told her that Salvatore’s family had been a part of the Romano crew for generations and that they had literally grown up together from birth, having been born two weeks apart. He told her stories about raising Luca, and how hard it was to become a father and a brother to a traumatized ten-year-old at the age of twenty-two. He told her how he shunned his family, creating a new one just for himself.
“And for you,” he told her. “This family is yours as well.”
“Roman...”
Roman jolted, turning his head to find Angela’s eyes focused on him. “Angel...” he murmured. “You’re back.”
She frowned. “Where was I?”
He smiled gently, reaching out to cup her cheek. “It doesn’t matter. You’re back now.”
Angela looked around, taking stock of their surroundings. Her pale cheeks flushed, and she looked embarrassed. “How long have I been in here?” She ran her eyes over his wet form. “Roman! You’re soaking.”
“It’s okay,” he promised. But apparently, she was well and truly back because she scowled at him.
“It is not okay. You’ll catch a chill. Get those wet clothes off,” she ordered.
Roman’s smile grew to a grin. He loved her bossiness. He ignored her grouchy swearing as he helped her back to bed first, making sure she was tucked in warmly. He averted his gaze from her nakedness, not wanting her to feel exposed or uncomfortable. Next, he stripped his wet clothes off in the ensuite, leaving them where they fell and threw on some sleep pants. Angela was watching him as he walked back into the bedroom. He checked on the kittens once again; they were still sleeping.
“Do you want to know what happened?” he asked, scared of her answer. He wouldn’t lie to her. Angela shook her head in the negative, drawing his attention to her wet hair. “I didn’t dry your hair. Here, let me get the dryer.”
“I don’t want a hairdryer, Roman,” Angela said firmly.
Roman paused. “What do you want?”
“I want you to make love to me.”
Her words shocked him. They also hit him like a lightning bolt. She was naked and in his bed for the first time. He didn’t need her to be using words like making love. Not after what she had just been through. “I don’t think—”
“I’m not asking you to think, Roman,” Angela interrupted him. Her emerald eyes met his. “Do you love me?”
The answer was easy. “Yes. I love you. You’re my light,” he confessed.
“And you’re mine,” Angela told him. “Make love to me.”
Roman didn’t question her further. He simply walked to the bed and joined her.
* * *
Angela watched Roman as he lifted the comforter and slid in beside her. He opened his arms, and she scooted into them quickly. She closed her eyes, her legs tangling with his, and just allowed herself to be held for a while.
She could feel Roman’s hardness between them, hidden behind the fabric of his sleep pants. But he didn’t seem to be in any rush to take her up on her demand. And neither did she. This close, she was able to properly study his tattoo. She was curious about it. She knew he had gotten it in memory of his mother, hence the lovely flowers. But... “Why the two skulls?” she asked, tracing the bigger one, followed by the smaller one next to it.
“The bigger one is for my mother. The small one is for Luca.”
The words rumbled low in his chest, Angela feeling the vibration due to their closeness. She looked up. “For Luca? But he’s not dead.” She cringed at how insensitive that sounded. “I’m sorry.” She still wasn’t feeling the best—physically and emotionally—but that was no excuse to be indifferent to Roman’s grief.
Roman smiled at her, twirling her damp locks around his hand. “It’s fine. Truly. I know what you meant. I got the first part of the tattoo when I was sixteen. At the time, I believed both Matri and Luca were dead. I’ve added flowers to it over the years, but I’ve had the skulls and the red rose for a long time.”
“Sixteen? That’s young,” Angela said.
Roman shrugged, drawing her attention to his muscled shoulders. “Age didn’t mean much where I grew up. I’m grateful for this tattoo, actually. My getting it is what prompted my father and uncle to talk about what they had done. And for me to overhear them.”
