Consent (The Loan Shark Duet 2)

I’m crowding her space, not backing away so she can move, but she’s not trying to escape. She faces me bravely with her pale cheeks and blurry eyes. I recognize the emotion in that expression. Defeat. It’s the point at which she realizes how utterly I’ve ruined her. She needs me, and she hates it, but she doesn’t shy away from the reality. She embraces the pain and makes it her own with that same sense of survival that allowed her to accept my ownership, give up on her dream, and carry my unwanted baby.

In return for her life and body, her dreams, and one-sided, warped love, I wrap my arms around her and give her comfort. She doesn’t deny herself the little I offer. She buries her face in my chest and leans against me, allowing me to support her weight. I scoop her up in my arms and lower her into the water before getting undressed and into the tub myself. I pull her back to my chest so that her head rests on my shoulder. The water covers everything except the contracted tips of her breasts that float like enticing cherries on the milky water. I lather soap into the sponge and drag it over her smooth shoulders and the crests of her breasts. I wash gently between her legs where it will be tender and rub my palms over the toned muscles of her thighs. It’s on her stomach where I linger the longest, folding my hands around the miracle unfolding in her womb.

I’m amazed that she allows me to touch her at all and pathetically grateful. I couldn’t come near Sylvia from the minute she fell pregnant to the day Carly was born. Reluctant to break the moment, I don’t have a choice when the water starts to cool. I pull the plug, help her from the tub, and hand her a towel. We dress silently, both lost in our thoughts. When I look back at her, my heart fills with an overwhelming, intense fucking sadness. Against the expanse of the window, she looks lost and unbelievingly neglected, a bride in my oversized clothes. Fragile, damaged, and irreparably broken.

“Come to bed.” It’s midday, but I want to hold her.

She blinks as if returning from someplace far. I don’t like it. Even the moments she retracts within her head are too far away for my liking. With the backdrop of the mountains and wild nature, she’s terrifyingly destructible. Small and vulnerable. The swell of her waist reminds me that her delicate condition makes her ten-fold more frail. An overpowering sense of protectiveness consumes me. The fear that something should happen to her or that I could lose her pushes a burning sensation up in my throat. The thought of anyone’s hands on her other than mine will drive me to my knees.

Suddenly, I need to know. I told myself if I could have her back it would be enough, that I wouldn’t ask questions, but I’m not strong enough to stand by my intention.

“In Durban, did you touch another man?”

She gives me a startled look. “No.”

“Nobody?”

“The only man who’s ever touched me is you.” She looks uncomfortable. “Except for that one time.”

I cross the floor and kiss her lips to shut her up. I don’t want her to think about the rape. Due to all of my energy having been focused on finding my runaway girl, I haven’t made progress with tracking her assailants. Enough of those thoughts. I took her body hard, and she needs to rest. Maybe I need to hold her more than she needs to be held, but it doesn’t matter. I take her hand and pull her down next to me on the bed. Fully clothed, I put my arms around her and cradle her against my body. She relaxes, her limbs molding around mine like puzzle pieces that fit just right.

“What would you like to do later?” I ask, stroking her hair.

“This is enough, Gabriel.”

I kiss the top of her head. It can never be enough. I can never get my fill of her, and that scares the fuck out of me.

We nap for a couple of hours, have a late lunch, and take one of the short hikes to the waterfall after I checked with the hotel guide that the walk isn’t too strenuous for my pregnant bride. The air and exercise do us both good. I needed to clear my head from Valentina’s gut-eating revelation of love and hate, and she has a glow on her too-pale cheeks when we get back at sunset. Not willing to share her with others, I selfishly order dinner to be served in front of the fireplace in our room. When the staff have cleared the dishes and stoked the fire, we play a game of Scrabble. Our behavior strikes me as odd. This isn’t something I’d ever have done with Sylvia, and certainly not on a honeymoon, but we aren’t a normal couple celebrating our newly taken vows.