A door creaked, and I peered up when the lights came on. We were in a bedroom. Danilo lay me down on a soft mattress and hovered over me, his face close to mine. His eyes swirled with emotions, but his face was perfectly still, beautifully controlled. He removed my wig with careful fingers and put it down on the nightstand with my cat mask. He pulled back, and for a moment, he only looked at me. I’d never regarded his face as unabashedly as I did now. There was nothing in me to be embarrassed or shy, or anything. I was empty. Nothing.
His gaze moved lower to my legs. They were stiff. I ached too much to move them. I felt sticky between my thighs. “I’m ruining my pants,” I whispered. It was such a ridiculous thing to worry about, but I couldn’t help it. His expression was like a thunderstorm.
I tried to push down my pants, but the leather seemed glued to my sweaty skin. I wasn’t even sure why I was sweating when I was feeling so cold.
“Do you need help?” Danilo murmured.
I nodded and let my arms drop to my side. Danilo hooked his hands in my pants and dragged them down my legs, so much gentler than before. He fought to free my feet of the pant legs and finally dropped my pants on the floor, leaving me in my panties. They were mint-colored, one of my favorite colors, but I could tell they were ruined. I reached out, hands shaking, touched my inner thigh and lifted my palm. My fingertips were coated in light pink. It wasn’t as much as I’d thought, and not pure red like I’d feared.
I shuddered out a breath.
Danilo closed his eyes, shoulders heaving, face contorting. Then he turned and moved into the adjoining bathroom. I heard water running, and when he returned, he had a washcloth. He sank down beside my hip, not meeting my eyes as he took the hand I was still staring at. He wiped it with the warm cloth, removing the blood from my fingertips.
“Do you want to clean yourself?” he asked, holding up the cloth. I stared at his face in silence. His brown eyes searched mine. “Sofia, say something, anything. Do you want me to call a doctor?”
“No,” I croaked. My family had suffered enough—they didn’t need this added to their pain.
His gaze darted to my panties then back up. “Emma’s got clothes in her room. Do you want me to get you fresh underwear?”
I nodded.
He stood and held out the wet washcloth, but I didn’t take it. He dropped it on the nightstand before he left the room. He returned quickly with a pair of black panties.
I hadn’t moved an inch.
He lowered himself on the bed and put the panties down beside me. Everything about this felt strange. Surreal.
His eyes came to rest on my still-sticky thighs. “You need to clean yourself and take a look to make sure I . . . that I didn’t seriously hurt you . . .” His deep voice trailed off before he looked into my eyes again.
I stared back at him, at the soft hazel-tone of his eyes, at the worry edged into every inch of his handsome face. I waited for the fuzzy feeling in my belly, but again I felt nothing.
“Sofia,” he rasped.
I reached for my panties, my fumbling fingers too shaky to shove them down.
He reached out, his hands stilling mine and touching my waistband. His eyes sought mine questioningly.
He waited.
For what?
My permission? He had been inside of me, what did it matter if he pulled down my panties again? He seemed to see the answer on my face, and finally slid my ruined panties down my legs, throwing them into a bin beside the bed. He grabbed the washcloth, held it out to me once more, but I refused to take it.
I was tired and drained. Broken. I didn’t want to make this easy on him. I wanted him to suffer as much as I did.
He angled his upper body toward me, his warm hand touching my knee. He gently parted my legs just enough so he could reach between them. Deep down, I knew I should have felt shy and ashamed of being this vulnerable, but I didn’t feel anything.
He ran the warm cloth over my inner thigh as if I were a butterfly wing, as if the barest touch could make me crumple. Where had the brutal dominance gone?
A muscle in his cheek twitched, but apart from that, his face was stone. He cleaned my other thigh before he pushed my legs a bit farther apart. A shiver raced down my body when he exposed me. I hadn’t been waxed yet. I always trimmed myself, but I wasn’t smooth as it was expected for a wedding night. “I’m sorry I’m not groomed yet,” I said tonelessly. Why was I apologizing?