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“Tatiana,” I groan. “I will run your bath. Right now, you need your privacy.”
“But you must have things to take care of, surely?”
I do. The Bratva, for example. Yet, for now, my only concern is Tatiana. I force myself to unclench my jaw, to speak gently despite the fury burning through my veins.
"Cara mia, you need a bath. Let me help you." I reach for her, but she steps back, an arm crossed protectively over her body. Her eyes are wary, haunted.
"It's okay," she says softly. "I'll take care of it."
My heart fractures at her brave front. She's been through hell tonight. And yet she still tries to shield me from the ugliness, willing to carry this burden alone.
No more.
I close the distance between us and cup her face in my hands, heedless of the blood staining my skin. Our eyes lock, and understanding passes between us. Here, at this moment, she is safe. Cherished. No matter what scars mark that beautiful body, she is perfect to me. "Please,amore mio," I whisper. "Let me help you."
Her shoulders slump as she relinquishes her iron grip on composure. One small nod is all I need. Scooping her into my arms, I carry her to the bathroom. The rest of the world falls away. My only purpose now is caring for the woman whose life I marred.
Tatiana lets me help her out of her bloody clothes and into a robe as I avert my gaze. Gently, I run a nice, hot bath and sprinkle bath salts into it. I turn as she undresses and slips in. She relaxes under my ministrations, some of the tension easing from her frame.
When she's clean, I grab a robe and bundle her into its softness. She clutches the fabric around herself like armor.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I brush a damp lock of hair from her face. "Anything for you, my love."
Leading her back to the bedroom, I tuck her under the covers—exhaustion wars with fear in her eyes. I will keep this woman safe if it's the last thing I do.
"Rest now. I'll have Rosario stand guard outside your door. Are you hungry?"
Her lips curve into a faint, grateful smile as she shakes her head before sleep claims her. I brush a kiss over her forehead and leave to make the arrangements, my heart considerably lighter. With Rosario on duty, no harm will come to my Tatiana tonight.
Chapter 22
Tatiana
I'm floating in a haze, the edges of sleep and consciousness blurring together. A distant knocking sound reaches my ears, but I can't tell if it's part of a dream or reality. I let the noise wash over me, too exhausted to respond.
"Tesoro?" Philippe's deep voice calls out, concerned. But I can't find the energy to answer him, even to move my lips. My body feels weighted down, anchored by some unseen force.
"Ti prego, apri la porta,"- please, open the door - he pleads, his worry growing more palpable with each second of silence. Yet, I remain motionless, unsure of how to breach the barrier between my clouded state and the world around me.
Is this real? Is he truly here or a fragment of my imagination? I leave it to the imagination for just mere seconds ago, Mama was kissing me, and I could smell Dad's cologne.
The knocking continues, and though I know I should acknowledge his presence, I can't bring myself to do so. Instead, I listen to his voice, letting it ground me without having to face him just yet. His accent wraps around me like an embrace, soothing the turmoil inside.
He’s only just a dream.
The door creaks open, and I hear footsteps approaching. My eyes remain fixed on the wall in front of me, a blank canvas for my wandering thoughts. In my head, I command myself to look, to see who it is. What if it's the people who murdered my parents?
But right now, I can't bring myself to care. In fact, I pray that they have found me. I pray they make it fast or slow, or however they want it, as long as it gets me to where I need to be with my parents. It's terrifying to admit, but part of me wishes for death.
"Tesoro," Philippe says softly, his voice bringing me back to reality. I don't respond, still staring at the wall, unable to gather the strength to do anything else.
My appearance has changed since the terrible night that stole my parents from me. Was that just last night? How long has it been?
I've showered, washing away the blood that had clung to my skin like a cruel reminder of their fate. Now, my long, dark hair falls unkempt, tangled around my shoulders.
"Ti prego, Tatiana, guardami," – Please, Tatiana, look at me– Philippe implores, his words weighted with concern.
