Scarred Regrets (Bellandi Crime Syndicate 5)

“Meet me halfway, cuore mio. I don’t want you to be alone. I want to be your everything. I just need you to give yourself to me and trust that I’ll make it okay.”

“You can’t ask that of me. Not now,” she said, shaking her head slightly.

“I will ask that of you every day until we no longer walk this Earth, Butterfly. One day, your answer will be yes,” I said, tugging the shirt up past her resistance. She lifted her arms with a heavy sigh that felt resigned, baring her body to me entirely.

She was as stunning as the day she’d stripped in front of her apartment window, but she’d be even more beautiful when she gained back the weight she’d lost and was healthy again.

“And what if it isn’t? What if I never say yes to what you think you want?” she asked, staring up at me. There was something in that stare, something in the way her eyes met mine and challenged me to deny how fickle my intentions seemed to be.

I couldn’t begin to make her understand that something inside me had shifted when I’d seen her up on that railing, having already given up on life and so desperate to go where I couldn’t reach her.

I’d have followed her if I had to. Plunged to my death rather than live without her permanently. I didn’t know if that was love, didn’t think there was a strong enough word for what I felt for Irina.

I would have died rather than live without her. I would have died before crossing the final name off my list.

“Then I’ll be right here with you anyway, because nothing else is ever going to work for either of us. We fit together, Butterfly,” I said, sliding my fingers through hers so that my hand engulfed hers. “No one will ever fit you the way I do.”

She jolted back, rocking on her heels and shaking her head furiously. Her hand ripped out of mine as she stumbled, making it so that I could barely catch her.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, searching her face for any sign of the pain that must have sent her reeling. Instead there were only dilated pupils and shock on her heart-shaped face.

“He liked the way I fit him. He liked the way I felt,” she mumbled, her forehead creasing with what I recognized as shame. It was the same face I made when I thought of the words murmured in my ear as a boy—the things that could have been sweet nothings in another time and place, but took on a dark, tormented meaning in the context I had.

I touched a hand to her chest above her breast, feeling her racing heart beat beneath my palm. “This,” I said pointedly. “You fit with me. Not your body, Irina. You’re here with me, not with him.” She stared up at me, holding my eyes as she worked to calm her frantic breaths.

As she tried to remind herself that she was safe.

“He’ll never stop,” she said, leaning forward. Her forehead touched the fabric of my shirt, filling me with the odd desire to have it against my bare skin. I wanted to feel her, to wrap her in my arms and comfort her with my skin and my scent until she recognized me instinctively as hers.

“He’ll have to go through me to get to you. That is never going to happen,” I said, touching my free hand to the back of her head. I pulled her closer, letting her wrap her arms around me and sink into my embrace.

Nothing was perfect. Our relationship would be flawed and messy and we’d stumble more times than I wanted to acknowledge.

But in the moments where she welcomed my touch, I knew we’d make it through.

Eventually.