“Don’t.”
He stops, eyes narrowing in confusion.
“I want to see it.”
“No, you do not.” He smears again.
“I do, Santiago.”
He doesn’t reply right away as if gauging the reason behind my request. But then he nods once and leans closer, forearm against the wall, hand over the top of my head, eyes on my eyes, then my lips and I think he’ll kiss me again, another blood-smeared kiss. But he doesn’t. And I’m strangely disappointed.
“Suit yourself.”
He picks up the soap and begins to lather it, then to wash me. Moments like this, he is so gentle that he’s almost tender. It’s so opposite to how he usually is with me that it’s confusing.
“What did you mean? That it’s a matter of life or death for me that I get pregnant?”
He grits his jaw, his gaze focused on the task of cleaning me.
“It means The Tribunal is sparing your life because they believe you are pregnant with my child.”
“What?”
He finishes washing me before washing himself. I smell like him now. Like he did on the night of our wedding in the confessional. Like he has every night he’s come to me. It’s the scent that clings to his pillow and sheets. Subtle, dark, and deeply masculine.
Once he’s finished washing himself, he opens the shower door and reaches for a towel, also black. He wraps it around my shoulders, and I take it from him, drying myself off before securing it. He takes another for himself and ties it low around his hips.
I watch the muscles of his back work beneath the ink of yet another skull as he walks ahead of me not hiding himself from me anymore.
“Why skulls?” I ask. It’s as if he’s tattooed death on every inch of himself.
He raises his eyebrows as he opens a dresser drawer to retrieve a pair of briefs and trousers and gets dressed.
“On your body. Your face,” I say.
“Our family crest.”
“That’s not it.”
“And you know this how?” He pulls on a sweater, cashmere stretching tight over muscular shoulders and arms.
“I see you, Santiago. I think I’ve always seen you.”
He grins, walks toward me to take the towel and tug it tighter around me, jerking me toward him. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what you see.”
I bite my lip, glance away, my gaze catching on the tattoo gun he threw to the floor. That gives me courage. A little at least. I shift my gaze up to his.
“You can’t stand to look at yourself. I don’t think it’s because you think you’re ugly. I don’t think you care about ugly or beautiful. That’s too simple for you. I think you see it as a weakness. I think you’re afraid when people see the scars, see what you’ve done to hide them, they’ll know you’re human. Breakable. Like the rest of us.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and a muscle ticks in his jaw. “I didn’t realize you were studying the human psyche at school.” He secures the towel at my chest and turns away to pick up the slacks he’d been wearing. He feels through his pockets and takes out his phone.
“That’s not all.”
“No?” he asks, using his thumb to unlock it.
“No.” I take a step toward him feeling braver. I put my hand on his arm and push the phone away so he looks at me.
“I’m all ears,” he says with an expression that says he’s humoring me, but I know he’s not. I’m right and he knows it and he doesn’t like it.
“I think you don’t have a mirror in your bathroom or anywhere that I’ve seen in the house outside of maybe the bedrooms you don’t use because when you see yourself, you see that weakness and you can’t stand it.”
He smiles tightly. “You’re clever but not as clever as you think,” he says, tucking wet hair behind my ear, turning my head a little to study the stencil side.
I wonder if it’s washed away at least a little. I am curious to see it for some strange reason I can’t quite explain.
He meets my eyes. “I did this so I would remember.”
I remain silent waiting for more.
“I did it so I would never forget all the lives that were lost, half of my own family wiped out in a matter of moments. I did it so I would always remember that when I walked away, I became indebted to them. I did it so I never forget that I owe them. That vengeance is due them.” His fingers tighten. “And mine will be the hand that deals that vengeance.”
I swallow, feel my shoulders cave a little at that because what I felt just moments ago, what we had when he made love to me—and it was love making—it’s gone. And I’m the one who reminded him of his hate.
“Go to your room, Ivy.”