The weight I’d carried had been lifted, and I’d fallen into my first deep rest in years.
Now, Dante knew.
He knew why we weren’t compatible, why I was broken, why I wasn’t as perfect as everyone made me out to be.
I stirred in his bed, half thinking I might find him lying beside me. When I cracked one eye open, though, I found the room dark, so I checked my phone.
It was ten at night already; he’d let me sleep all day. I glanced around the bedroom and heard the shower running.
Heat crept through my body, even though I knew we were past that. Dante had held me as a friend, desperate and broken in his arms, just hours before. The moments came rushing back like a tidal wave, trying to push me down and drag me out to sea.
Some would probably say I was mourning something I never had, but what they didn’t understand about the miscarriage was that my brain had started planning even if I didn’t know whether I’d keep the baby or not. I still dreamt about them. I’d researched the baby’s growth and stressed over her or him. My future shifted as I pictured my life with them in my arms.
Then something in my body I couldn’t control ripped it away. Maybe I’d done something wrong… but whatever it was, I couldn't get my baby back.
Dante hadn’t looked at me like I was crazy. He’d held me, told me he wanted to protect me, that I was like family to him.
The wordfamilycrushed my heart, though, because to him that meant I was the kid sister, I was another person he wanted to protect. But I reminded myself that’s all we could be, close family friends. My mental health was too fragile, and he was too much of everything I wanted.
If I lost something like that again, I wouldn’t survive.
Even so, hearing the water on the opposite side of one door, knowing he was washing himself, picturing the soap sliding over each of his muscles and down his smooth skin, my body reacted. It always did when it came to him, especially after he’d let me sleep all day. He’d taken care of me. I knew I was safe here with him.
I sat up in bed, willing myself to leave without looking around. Yet, I was a product of a big household that was extremely nosy. My mom and dad read our diaries, they taught us to look inside everything, and we pretty much dug through each other’s business like there was gold at the bottom of it.
I didn’t have to even scan much of the room to see what I saw, though. His clothes were bundled in the corner, full of mud and a dark red stain that could only be blood.
As I tiptoed over to his clothing, I heard a crash in the bathroom and a groan. It didn’t take me more than a second to run to that door. What if he was hurt? What if he’d gone and done something and was gravely injured? He was an Armanelli doing undercover work.
My mind took me to that typical scene in a James Bond movie. I was the girl who was going to help our country’s spy survive.
I swung open the door, practically crying out, “Dante, are you o—”
As my eyes whipped to the shower stall, my question died on my lips. I saw a white towel stained pink and red and a needle that was definitely intended to sew something shut. I was a nurse. I knew medical grade materials when I saw them.
None of it mattered when my eyes found Dante, though. I stared at the god of a man in the shower. One muscular arm was braced against the tile, tattoos wrapping around it and mingling with the large veins on his skin. I knew his gaze was on me, but he didn’t move or attempt to hide himself.
Instead, he stood there in all his glory, muscles taut as he held his huge rock-solid cock in his fisted hand.
The tip glinted under the light, and my eyes bulged when I saw dark metal glistening from beneath water droplets. Visible on either side of the tip of his cock were three balls of steel. They looked just big enough to rub the walls of my pussy exactly the way I’d want.
Those hadn’t been there years ago.
I couldn’t look away. I mean, I told myself to. I willed myself to back out of that bathroom, but my mind short-circuited as I stared at him. Every part of him was better than I remembered, better than what I’d dreamed about for over half a decade.
That cock—how the head swelled in his hand, how it looked as solid and hard as the metal pierced through it—it was the same but different. Familiar and brand new.
My whole body shivered as I tried to form an apology and pull my gaze from what I knew was the best dick I’d ever had with added tools. “I heard a crash… I thought you were hurt. I’m so sorry for barging in.” I started to back away, but his stare pinned me where I stood.
“Lilah, if you’re going to apologize, might be a good idea to take your eyes off my cock.”
I nodded without really listening because I was still staring, but the words registered, and my gaze snapped up fast. “I’m sorry. It’s just that… well…”
“Lamb, I’m in the middle of something here. You going to join in or say what you need to say and leave?”
“You weren’t pierced before,” I blurted. Why I had to make that announcement, I didn't know.
“And?”