The clean, perfumed scent of hotel soap filled my nose—rose and jasmine.
I wouldn’t let the water get my hair, but I did wash off the makeup.
I also did my best to avoid getting the bandage wet on my palm, but it got soaked anyway and fell off.
Fuck.
Once I finished my shower and stepped out, I dried off and then tenderly tapped the towel on my slashed palm.
I hope it will be fine. Will I need another bandage?
No blood seeped from the wound which was a great sign. The line had puffed up from the water.
The cut hadn’t been super deep, but it was enough to forever remind me of the moment I’d become bound to Gianni.
Sighing, I thought back to that moment and the blood that had spilled on the altar.
Blood.
In the Italian mafia world, it was always about the blood.
Bloodlines.
Blood ties.
Blood spilled.
And now a blood bond.
That cut by the priest said that our marriage went beyond vows and rings.
I stared at the wound some more, still trying to believe the situation I’d found myself in.
The edges of the cut were puffy pink and very tender, but they were knitting back together, just as I felt my heart already trying to knit itself to Gianni.
By no means was the priest’s metaphor lost on me.
Wounds healed, but they also left scars.
Blood dried, but it also stained.
And flesh, once torn, was never quite the same again.
Just like Gianni and I would never be the same again.
Together we would forever be changed.
Alright. Alright. Get ready.
I slipped into the lingerie Gianni had chosen for me and just like I’d guessed, it hugged me so good that I swore it was a second skin. The feeling was foreign, but welcome because. . .I felt so damn sexy.
He knows my size, but of course because all the wedding gowns fit. I just wasn’t paying attention there, but now. . .I’m fucking assessing.
I turned to look in the mirror.
Well damn. Not bad at all.
The woman in the mirror was a seductive creature of pure desire.
