Tangled In Strings

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"W-What happened? What did you do?"

"I punched his window, when he tried to leave."

I push the waves shielding his face, finding purple darkness and an open wound by his eyebrow. They fought.

"Are you hurt? Are you hurt anywhere else?"

I can't stop checking, even when he assures me he isn't.

"Scarlett."

I bang my head onto his chest, with a heavy sigh. "I can't believe you did this."

His hand burrows into my hair, and fists a handful. He's holding me so close, close enough that blood gets onto my clothes. The blood of the man who haunts my dreams.

"I had to make him bleed," he whispers into my hair.

I should be terrified to hear that, fearful, concerned, angry that he risked himself this way.

I'm not. I'm grateful. I'm indebted. I'm awed.

I feel his protection through every ounce of me.

I grab his cheeks and crush my mouth to his, hard enough that we both grunt under the pressure. It's the first time we've kissed in almost a week, since Norman died. I douse him in my gratitude, hearing weak noises of desperation escape with my breaths as I grow frustrated that I can't be everywhere at once.

"If you ever do that again, I'll kill you," I gasp, and his mouth curves against mine, his eyes opening slowly, completely unfazed to any of the pain he must be experiencing in his hand. "I swear I will. You can't fight all of my demons, Giovanni. You just can't."

He pulls me back onto his lips by the hair. "Watch me."

...

The apartment is almost completely dark, only illuminated by the fireplace across the room. It's just after midnight. The only reason I know it is because Norman's standing clock just chimed throughout the place. We've refrained from television, and music—any noise really.

Our thoughts have been loud enough as of late.

My eyes drift up from the book on my lap, landing on Giovanni, standing near the bar in the kitchen. He's flipping through papers on the countertop, and there's a dress form beside him, which has Giovanni's latest creation—an evening gown—draped onto it. He's diligent, and focused, immersed in the project.

It's been so rare that I've been privileged enough to watch him work, watch how he thinks, and experiments. The longer I look, the more I'm reminded that despite his father's money, Giovanni is a self-made man. His business is this important because he's made it that way.

When he studies one of the designs, his hand drifts through his hair to keep it out of his eyes, and I catch sight of the white bandage that was applied earlier in the emergency room. He didn't need stitches, but they did have to remove shards of glass from his skin. His other hand is blue, which makes me wonder what Ted looks like.

I'm sure he won't say anything. Not with our status, and not with his history. No good would come from challenging either of us. When we left the hospital, boarded the plane and got back into New York, I expected that I'd be a mess, tormented by even the thought of him.

But, I don't feel that. I feel satisfaction, and if I can feel satisfaction, then Giovanni definitely has to be feeling it.

Giovanni is measuring the sleeve, when I speak. He looks surprised by my attention.

"You know, I never asked you how that woman's line debuted in Milan, back in February."

Our mostly unspoken time apart.