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Taking one of his hands in my own, I guided it over my belly. He shivered, like the reminder of our growing child and the gunshot wound was too much to bear.
The distance between our lips grew fictional. Zeno let me see on his face how much this separation would take its toll on him. How it already was and how he would still yield to my request because he could never deny me anything.
Our lips met softly and the kiss shot a zing through my bloodstream.
It reminded me of our first kiss and the butterflies in my stomach when he pulled me closer with a groan, like he marvelled at my existence.
A lone tear dripped from Zeno’s right eye and landed on my cheek.
It undid me.
“How much time?” he asked.
“As much time as it takes us to come back stronger.”
“Are you barring the gates of heaven for me, little angel?”
Not forever. “There’s a hotline in heaven you can call to reach me.”
He brushed the tip of his nose against mine. “Will you keep me waiting like the first time or finally give me your number?”
“Are you writing it down?”
“Mhm,” he hummed.
“It’s 1-800-I-Don’t-Like-Butt-Stuff,” I whispered and he chuckled against my lips, but it was a watery sound that sliced me.
I started crying because that sound—God, thatsound—reminded me I was alive and healthy and on my way to recovery.
When I lay bleeding on the ground, the only thought on my mind was this beautiful enigmatic man who made me the happiest woman in the world for the short time we shared together.
And how I wished to find him again in every lifetime that followed.
It was odd being back in my childhood home—namely my room—after months. Especially when I swore to Diane Hill that I would never return.
Funny how that worked out.
I thought being in my former sanctuary would bring me some form of peace, but all I felt was loneliness. Mere hours had passed and I already missed my husband terribly.
Dacia washed my hair and gave me a sponge bath to remove the stench of the worst day of my life. Fresh and in clean PJs, I manoeuvred onto my bed with her help, holding my stomach.
“Do you want me to sleep in your room?” she asked.
The worrisome glint in her eyes stopped me from saying no. What Dacia couldn’t outright say with words, she spoke with body language.
She needed to be here for both our mental sakes.
Me getting shot was a traumatic experience for my family too.
“Sure.” I settled against the headboard, propped up by silk pillows, and patted the place next to me.
Dacia kicked off her slippers and rounded my bed, settling under the covers.
“Thank you for taking care of me.”
“What are sisters for, Dar?” Assisterslipped out, her expression pinched.
“We’re actually cousins.” There, I addressed the elephant in the room.
