I would trace the lattice of scars across his chest, my heart aching so badly I could barely breathe. I refused to waste a single drop of what his suffering had bought. So I choked down that bitter, iron-reeking medicine for three years straight, never missing a dose.
I had believed he wanted the same thing I did: a child that carried both our bloodlines.
Yet he would rather cut himself open than let me bear his child.
Ermanno walked through the door just as I sat staring blankly at the glass in my hands.
He came up behind me, rested his hands on my shoulders, and murmured, "What are you thinking about, Gioia? The medicine will go cold if you don't drink it soon."
I looked up at the gentle, warm man before me and let my gaze travel over him, careful not to show it.
He had changed his clothes at some point. His fingertips and hair carried a clean, freshly scrubbed scent. He must have bathed before coming home.
But no matter how meticulous he was, the faint smudge of rouge behind his ear gave him away.
The ghost of perfume clinging to his skin conjured the image of their tangled bodies, and bile rose in my throat.