Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Now tell me again nothing good comes from insanity.
I’ve waited years for this. I bled for it. And now it seems surreal.
Incapable of not touching Valentina for longer than ten minutes when we’re in the same room, I join her in the bathroom, band my arm around her waist, and prop my chin on her shoulder.
She smiles at my neediness before she commences placing a final coat of mascara on her long lashes. Her strokes stammer when I whisper, “Say it again.”
Her eyes—those eyes that fucking undo me—meet mine in the vanity mirror. They show her defiance, but they also reveal we don’t have enough time for another marathon fuck.
Her mother is due to arrive in less than an hour.
The world tilts on its axis when Valentina answers my demand without the zaps of an orgasm coursing through her. “I love you.”
Those three little words make me soft, but fuck if I can give them up. I’ll shield her from the monsters I dine with and the so-called foes who hide their knives with their smiles. I’ll stand between her and every blade, bullet, and lie because she’s the most valued possession I own. To get to her, you’ll have to get through me first.
I pull her close until her heartbeat carves itself into my bones like it did the day I first saw her. “You know you don’t need all this shit, right?” I wait for her eyes to align with mine before I lower them to the makeup spread across the vanity. “Martina supplied them with your dress in case you didn’t have any makeup to suit the fabric.” Martina is the designer brought in to make Valentina’s dress. Dad has gone all out with Concetta’s birthday celebrations. It is a black-tie affair. “She assumed the heat on your cheeks when she took your measurements was artificial. We know better, don’t we, dolcezza?”
Valentina nods slowly before she dumps the mascara into the makeup bag Martina supplied. Then she scrubs the makeup off her face.
“Much better,” I murmur when her natural beauty peeks out from beneath layers of foundation and concealer.
Once she’s scrubbed her face clean, she spins in my arms. Her watch is confident but also shadowed with worry.
“Vanni,” she whispers my name like the spell she cast on me might break if she speaks it too loudly. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there’s an option we can take to identify the biological mother of your child before birth.”
I stiffen. This is not where I thought she was going when she whispered my name.
With my throat too constricted for a long sentence, I keep things short. “Go on.”
She walks us into the main part of our room, plonks me on the bed still rumpled from our hours of escapades, then sits next to me. She’s close enough that I feel the warmth of her body, but not enough to drown out the loud thuds of my heart.
“While waiting for my appointment at the clinic, I read every pamphlet in the waiting room. One was about amniocentesis testing. It’s usually done to check for genetic conditions or infections, but it can also be used for DNA testing.” Her breathing is uneven now, but she pushes on. “They use a really thin needle.” She traces the air with my finger as if that makes it less frightening. “It’s inserted through the abdomen and into the uterus so they can draw out a small amount of amniotic fluid from around the baby.”
The image her description paints slices a knife across my jugular. “No.”
“Gio—”
“No,” I repeat, louder this time. “I’m not letting anyone put a needle in your stomach.” Just the thought of someone doing that to her has me itching to kill. The doctor who came to collect a blood sample last week to check her HCG levels barely made it out alive, and his needle was minute compared to the one I’m imagining. “I don’t care what they promise or how safe they say it is. It’s not happening.”
Before I can pace out my anger, Valentina grabs my hand and holds me still. “They do it with ultrasound guidance, so they see exactly where the needle goes. It’s quick, but…” Her words trail off to silence.
“But?” I ask, my brow arched.
She considers lying, but the combined scents of our arousal on the sheets scrunched around her ass stop her. She knows I can force the narrative, so she chooses honesty.
“It’s not without risk. There’s a tiny chance of miscarriage… and infection.”
“To you?” The fear gripping my throat makes it difficult to speak. “Is the risk of infection to you?”
She sheepishly nods. “That’s why they only recommend it when there’s a valid reason.” I shake my head when she murmurs, “This is a valid reason. I can’t carry this child for nine months and then hand it to Valeria.”