ATONEMENT | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER TEN

I dragged my tired, naked body from bed to the ultraluxe outdoor shower to wash last night's humidity from sun-peeled skin. It's painless now, the rough, dry patches fading and less itchy. Tepid water streamed from the wooden chute, rinsing orchid-scented shampoo through unmanageable sweat-slicked hair. I lathered the ends with a conditioning treatment, hoping Liam thought to pack straightening irons. It's not often I straighten natural curls, but those disruptive coils necessitated thorough treatment after weeks of neglect.

Towel snagged from the rack and swathed around my body. I revisited the master bedroom, half-heartedly made the bed, laid essentials across the white comforter and performed a forgotten ritual of tender loving care. I had a box of island purchased emollient and moisturiser on standby, ready to luxuriate.

I sat on the edge of the bed, checked the time on my phone and blew out a forced sigh. Premature holiday blues manifested. We leave North Island tomorrow to return to London, and a semblance of poignant distress precipitated immobilisation. I had no desire to bid farewell to the one place, the only place that's ever provided perpetual safety and secluded romanticism. To live here, twenty-four-hour rotational security, round-the-clock defensiveness and silent but deadly adversaries were non-existent. We breathed freely, uncaringly, without the constant inclination to check over our shoulders to see if someone watched or followed us.

Tossing the phone onto the piled-high pillow arrangement, I fell onto my back and stared at the thatched ceiling. Yes, I am sad and somewhat grieving a life we may never experience, not long-term, but could I genuinely never step foot inside the Manor again? I'd miss the Suits, Jace and Grayson. And Tony and I still had a relationship to build. I get the feeling Heather's a newly adopted family member. What of Chloe? She hates me. I doubt there's any salvageable friendship there, which, given our background, is heart-breaking.

Rolling onto my stomach, I buried my head on the duvet and smothered a wearied groan. It's the reality I fear most. When Liam's back in a suit, armed and ready for the world ahead, we will be all but two passing ships in the night. I dread those sleepless nights without him.

What if assumed relationship complications is a misinterpretation for habitual uncommunicativeness?

Periodic companionship is healthy, right?

I mean, I love Liam. He's quite literally the most important person in my life, but if we spent every waking moment together, can a lifelong, loving marriage survive? Deprivation of occupation, leisure, breathing space, friendships and social circles are causes for severe marital problems. If we lived in each other's pockets, love could turn into dislike and resentment, which then becomes a focal point for brewing hate and possible extramarital relations.

Pushing myself into a seated position, I held the towel tight to my chest and inwardly chided myself for lack of sureness. No, I'd never let our marriage spiral out of control. Liam and I don't talk, so scant communication is an issue for us. We fight and abuse the power of intimacy until one or the other breaks. Rather than dread normalcy, we should talk, clear the air, colour the grey areas and conform to a set of principles. It mightn't work. I am sure no marriage is that straightforward. But our reality differs from conventionality, and possible toxicity necessitates consideration for us to beat the odds.