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My gut knots when she doesn’t reply for several long seconds. She can’t forgive me. The deceit runs too deep. Her emotionless state can only mean she’s finally weaned off from Gabriel. He doesn’t matter. Maybe he never did. Only an arrogant asshole would hope differently. I still owe her the truth, so this is what I give her, starting from the day I discovered the evidence of her rape and ending with my plastic surgery.
Not once does she interrupt. She listens quietly as I confess, her attention acute and focused. When I come to the end of my guilty monologue, she finally stirs. My nerves raw and my heart bleeding, I watch her get to her feet and walk to where her bag lies on the floor. She’ll gather her clothes, get dressed, and leave. I’ll never see her and Connor again, and I can’t blame her. I did worse to her than the enemies whose bones I’ve broken. All I can do is drink in the soft lines of her perfect body. A painful flashback of her hanging from a rope with her underwear around her ankles pierces my mind. She still has those same, gorgeous S-lines, like the ethereal subject in a painter’s portrait.
Taking something from her bag, she turns and watches me in the way she listened––with silent concentration. As she walks to me, the strength that makes her the most remarkable women I know shows. Every step is laced with confidence. Does she hold judgment? Will she condemn me? I will take whatever I get, whether it be hate or acceptance, but I don’t expect forgiveness. My only hope is that we won’t part on ugliness. Nothing to soil this perfect, last moment. A part of me wishes for her to walk away like this, saying nothing, while another part of me screams to know what she feels, what she thinks.
She stops close to me, way too close. “I’ve been waiting for a long time for you to tell me this, Gabriel.”
She says my name softly, purposefully.
My heart starts beating furiously, blood gushing through my veins, burning my skin. “You knew?”
“From the first moment.”
If she knew, why did she allow things to go this far? Why didn’t she kill me, hurt me, or got one of my ex-bodyguards to take care of me? Where is her revenge? My eyes drop to the object she clutches in her fist. Whatever it is, she waited for my confession before handing it to me. It could be damnation or absolution, but I suspect the first.
I shouldn’t touch her, not after what I admitted, but I can’t help myself. My hands are drawn to the curve of her hips. I cup them and pull her between my legs, staring up at her huge, brown eyes, afraid of what I’ll find there, but there’s no anger, blame, or hurt. Only something beautiful I don’t deserve. I should plead, beg, explain more, try to put the shambles of feelings twisting and tumbling in my heart into sentences, but the only word I can force from the hollowness in my chest is, “How?”
“I don’t need a face to know you.”
Hope blooms inside me, but I squash it. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“There’s only one thing I want to say, and I couldn’t do it until you were honest with me.”
What can she possibly say after everything I told her, after everything my family did to her? Her gaze is soft and filled with something that makes my heart jerk. I never want to forget how she looks, right now, because for the first time in my life someone stares at me with love and loyalty. She will fight for me like no one ever has.
Her lips part with a featherlike breath. “I love you, Gabriel.”
My world and pitiful existence collapse, every defense I cemented into the wall of my life crumbling around me. Regret, joy, hope, disbelief at my incredible, miraculous luck that this amazing feminine creature can love me pour out of me, condensing in big, shameless tears that run over my face.
She leans against me, pressing our skins together. “I tried to tell you, a long time before you left, but you didn’t want to listen. Now, with only the truth between us, you have to believe me.”
I press my face into her stomach, holding onto her like she’s my salvation. “I love you, Valentina. With everything I am. God knows, I tried to stop, to set you free, but I can’t.”
Where do we go from here? How do we pick up the pieces and build a new life as a family?
She answers the question when she opens her hand and holds her palm out to me. “Gregor Malan, will you marry me?”
The platinum of my wedding band makes a perfect shining circle on her skin. I stare at it in disbelief, battling to digest her words.
