It’s because she understands me. She knows what I am, and she accepts what I am. Entirely.
And maybe…just maybe…the darkness in her that mirrors my own is close enough to mine that she feels the same sense of elation knowing that the shadow from her past is gone.
Slowly, her eyes locked with mine, she nods her chin.
“Okay,” she says in a small voice.
I lead her to the tub and squat down next to where she kneels on the towel and leans over the water. My fingers comb through her hair, pulling it forward and letting it touch the water. I use a cup to gently pour warm water over her long hair. Bianca stiffens a little at first, and her breath comes faster than normal.
But slowly, it turns peaceful. Slowly, her shoulders relax.
Her eyes close, and a small smile curls the corners of her lips.
I shampoo her hair for a long time, slowly, sudsing every lock ever so gently with my fingers. I rinse out the shampoo and then add conditioner, again taking the time to massage her scalp and run my fingers through her hair before I rinse that out too.
When we’re done, her shoulders hitch a little. After I drape a towel around her, and then bundle her hair up in another one, she turns to me, a single tear beading in her eye as her lips pull into a smile.
Her hand reaches out, cupping my face.
“I love you,” she whispers quietly in the stillness of the bathroom.
“I love you too.”
27
KRATOS
“Creep.”
A smile spreads across my face. Twisting my head, I turn to let my eyes pierce the shadows. Bianca’s in her leotard and tights, arms folded over her chest as she smirks at me.
“So. Busted,” she grins.
“I never should have told you about me spying on you.”
I’ve wondered how long it would take her to figure out where I watch her from at the theater. For a few weeks now, since I admitted to Bianca that I do it, I’ve watched from this very seat as she’s tried to figure out where I’m hiding.
Doubting, I’m sure, if I even am.
But today, she’s found me in my secret perch high up in one of the private boxes to the side of the stage, hidden within the curtains.
Down below, Madame Kuzmina barks orders, her ominous black shawl swishing. The array of ornate rings on her fingers glints in the stage lights as she brandishes a literal wooden switch—like they’d use for disciplining students in the 1800s—at the dancers.
Not that I’d ever have reason to, but I’m sure I’d never in a million years want to tangle with that woman. She’s terrifying.
We’re well hidden by the curtain as Bianca muffles her shriek with her hand as I yank her off her feet and into my lap. She breathes haltingly as her legs spread to either side of my thighs, the apex of her tights pulled snug against her pubic mound and pressing hard against my cock in my jeans.
“You know what I want to do right now?” she whispers, trembling as my mouth drags up her neck, biting her skin lightly.
“Is it what I want to do too?”
She moans a little. “You say first.”
“Cut that sexy leotard and tights off of you with a blade, bite your nipples until you’re writhing for me, and then fuck you over the railing of the box.”
Bianca swallows, her eyes widening in the dim light as her breath hitches. Her nipples harden under her leotard, her face flushing darkly.
“Your turn,” I murmur. She yelps and then bites her hand as I reach up to pinch one of those far-too-tempting nipples through the fabric, making it pebble even more.
“No, I like your idea,” she whispers feverishly. “I was going to say something lame like kiss you.”
“Not lame at all,” I murmur as I grab a handful of her hair and crush my mouth to hers.
Fuck, I’ll never tire of the way her breathy whimpers hum softly in her throat when I kiss her aggressively.
“Unfortunately, I’m going to get screamed at to come back to the stage in like sixty seconds,” she sighs.
I smile. “I’ve got a work thing now anyway.”
Her brow darkens a little.
“Just a meeting.”
I haven’t told Bianca every single detail of what my job entails. But, I mean, she grew up in the mafia. She understands how this works, and what I am, and how I use what I am for my family’s benefit. Still, I know it worries her when I get called to go out someplace late and come back with bruised knuckles or blood on my shoes.
“Like a meeting-meeting, or the kind where I should have an ice pack ready for your hands?”
I grin as I cup her face and kiss her. “The only ice I’ll need is for my drink. It’s a sit-down thing. Gentlemanly. Civilized.”
