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The moment she’s gone, I walk to the bed and take Sabella’s hand. Her skin is cold. I can’t think about what she went through or how she feels because I’ll lose the little reason I have left.
I press my lips on her knuckles and hold her cold palm against my cheek. I want to get into bed with her and hold her against me, but between the IV in her arm and the heart rate monitor that’s clipped onto her finger, not to mention her broken bones, there are too many obstacles between us. There’s been too many damn obstacles for far too long.
I carefully lower her hand and study her face. A purple bruise swells over her temple. Her bottom lip is split. I can’t see what’s hiding under the bandage that’s wrapped around her head, but I don’t need a visual to strengthen the killing rage that’s running through my veins.
Taking the corner of the covers, I pull them open. She’s dressed in a hospital gown that reaches mid-thigh. Bruises bloom on her arms and her legs—big, angry marks that are black and purple. My gut ties into a knot when I grip the hem and lift the gown.
The sight of her body sends me over the edge of sanity. Her midriff is one big violet canvas. A bruise peculiarly shaped like the sole of a shoe stretches from under her breast to her side. The marks on her inner thighs stand witness to what they did to her.
How fucking many?
How does she come back from this?
With me, that’s how. I’ll get her through this. I’ll help her heal if it’s the last thing I do. But first I need to make sure she’s safe and that she stays safe forever.
I take great care to cover her, making sure I don’t touch her and cause her pain. Then I kiss her forehead. It takes all I’ve got and more to walk from that room, but once I close the door behind me, I turn into what I was born to be.
A monster.
“How is she?” an old lady with a pink woolly hat whispers.
I frown. “Do you know my wife?”
The woman glances at the people around her.
A woman with dark-rimmed glasses and too much red lipstick for two in the morning steps up. “We all know her.”
I glare at her. “And you are?”
“Mrs. Campana. I own the pharmacy in the village.”
“How exactly do you know my wife?”
Her pout makes her mouth look like a prune. “We’re her friends.” Lifting her chin, she says, “We’re all her friends.”
I don’t ask how or why. There’ll be time for that later. I single out the only other man there except for the grocery store owner. “Are you the one who found her?”
The man looks me up and down. “She knocked at my door, yes.”
A lump lodges in my throat. “What did she say?”
“Nothing. She was unconscious.” He shakes his head. “I found her in a small heap on the doormat.”
I shove down my emotions. “Thank you for calling an ambulance. I’ll reward you of course.”
He pulls up his nose. “If you think I want money for helping a friend then you don’t understand the first thing about friendship.”
My phone rings. I let that comment slide, pulling the phone from my pocket.
The woman with the pink hat pulls at my sleeve. “You didn’t say how she is.”
I press the phone against my ear, already walking away as I say more for my benefit than for theirs, “She’ll be fine.”
She has to be.
I don’t want to build this life without her. Everything I did, I did for one reason only—to bind us together. Every thought and every smallest action were aimed at making her a part of my future.
I can’t give her up.
