Page 39 of Forbidden War (Forbidden 2)
KARINA
He sleeps.
My anxiety grows every second that he doesn’t open his eyes, but the doctors said it was fine to let Marco sleep after the shock he experienced, so I do…even though I’m tempted to wake him up every five minutes just so I can be sure he’s okay. There are guards patrolling every square inch of the house now, additional security cameras have been installed, and Armani assigned multiple bodyguards for each member of the family. This place has become a fortress, but I’m more worried about what’s going on inside my husband’s head than an intruder.
I still can’t believe I almost lost him.
His face is soft and relaxed, and I can’t resist running my fingers through his mop of black hair. It curls at the ends around his temples, and I get a glimpse of Marco as a young boy. I imagine his hair a little longer and more disheveled, his cheeks a bit fuller and less sculpted. He probably wore a mischievous grin and had permanent grass stains on his ripped jeans. I bet he learned early how to charm people.
He certainly charmed me, completely pulled me in with his magnetism. How could I resist him? I still can’t, even after all the betrayals and dark truths that have pushed their way between us. Even when I said I didn’t want him, I longed for him. Nearly losing him in this shooting has unlocked the last little part of me that says I should keep my distance from Marco and just live an agreeable life, but nothing more intimate than that. I don’t want to be just a figure in his life. I want to be his wife, completely, in every capacity.
I want us to share a life.
Almost twenty-four hours have passed since the incident, and I’ve maybe napped a total of three hours in that time. I’ve been alternating between watching him from the chair I pulled up close to the bed and lying next to him, and my whole body aches for some actual movement. My back hurts, my leg muscles are cramped, my eyes feel like someone poured sand in them.
Carefully moving off the bed, I check to be sure I’m not disturbing him and then tiptoe to the sitting room. All I can do is pace, but at least it helps with the anxiety. When I hear a knock at the door, my heart jumps into my throat.
“Mrs. Bellanti?” a gruff voice calls through the door. “It’s me, Viking.”
I recognize the voice of one of Marco’s longtime bodyguards, to whom I was recently introduced by Armani and Dante, and I let out a sigh of relief.
“Yes?” I say, opening the door a crack.
“There’s food, ma’am,” he says.
Behind him, I see one of the staff standing in the hall with a small rolling cart laden with covered dishes of food, a carafe of ice water, a pot of fragrant coffee, and hot water for tea.
“Chef Alain prepared a little feast for you both. Is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?” the staff member asks softly.
“No, thank you. Tell him we appreciate it.”
Stepping back, I let Viking wheel the cart into the sitting room, then thank them both again and close the door. Then I sink onto the couch, take a deep breath, and try to still my racing pulse. It’s hard to imagine ever feeling truly safe again after this attack.
I catch the familiar smell of the vodka sauce that the Bellantis’ chef has learned is my absolute favorite, and which I’m sure he prepared specially for me. My stomach rumbles, but it’s instantly followed by a wave of nausea. I’m hungry, of course—I’ve barely been able to eat a thing since Frankie and I saw the news about the shooting—but every time I let my mind stray to what happened, I feel queasy all over again.
I make myself a cup of tea to start with, hoping it will help settle my stomach, and sip it while looking out the window at the grounds below. It’s almost fully dark outside but the area below is well lit, giving me a good view of the flowerbeds and the gravel path leading around the side of the house. I slide the window up to catch the cool breeze, closing my eyes to the feel of it riffling strands of hair around my face.
“Is that…food in there?”
Marco’s voice startles me and I nearly drop the mug. I set the tea down and rush to him, putting a hand to his forehead beside the bandage.
“How are you feeling?”
His half-glazed eyes look up at me. “Hungry.”
I check the bandage to be sure his laceration didn’t bleed through. It looks clean, and I feel a little better.
“Do you want some tea first? Just to make sure you can keep it down? The nurse said the pain meds can mess with your stomach, but they also gave you pills for that, so—”
“I’m fine, Karina.” Wincing, Marco pushes himself into a sitting position. “I just need food. And a shower. In that order.”
I take it as a good sign that he’s hungry and push the cart from the sitting room over to the bed, lifting the covers off the dishes for Marco.
“Let’s see. There’s hot bread and butter, penne vodka…”
“Obviously that’s for you,” Marco interjects.
“Obviously for me, but I’ll share,” I agree with a smile, “and some lasagna, chicken soup and crackers, white rice, peas and carrots, orange slices. Coffee and tea. Jell-O. Does any of that sound good to you?” I ask. “Looks like Alain prepared a pretty solid mix of hospital cafeteria selections and classic Italian comfort food.”
He tilts his head, thinking. “The bread and lasagna look amazing.”
“Stay there, I’ll get it for you. We can eat together.”
I fill our plates and arrange everything on a bed tray, along with cups of tea and water, satisfied to see Marco tear into the food with steady hands. It’s hard not to stare at him. Every part of me is still on high alert, still anxious he could be ripped away any moment.
After we got home from the hospital, he’d refused to let me help him undress and get into the shower. Instead he’d just stripped down to his boxer briefs and climbed into bed, utterly exhausted. I hadn’t gotten much of a look at his body then, but now I see his chest is bruised, his neck and shoulders abraded from the shattered glass. His skin has nicks and scabs scattered over it from where the nurse had cleaned debris from his skin. He must be sore all over.
The blankets slip lower, revealing his tight abdomen and the dark trail of hair there. A deep ache twists between my legs. It’s been so long since we’ve been together in that way, and I’ve been so worried about him. Having him right here in front of me, eating like a starving man, breathing, talking, living—my relief is so strong that it only flames my desire.
He finishes his food in record time, downs the tea, and carefully sets the tray aside.
“I really need that shower,” he says. “But I’m getting tired again already. Jesus.”
His face contorts as he tries to get up. I immediately shoot out a hand to stay him.
“Don’t, Marco. You need to stay in bed,” I scold him gently.
“I feel disgusting.”
I think for a split second. “I’ll clean you up. Just stay there. Please.”
He doesn’t respond, but neither does he attempt to get out of bed again, so I go into the bathroom to gather some supplies. There’s a small basin beneath the sink that holds spare soap and shampoo, which I empty out and fill with hot water. Then I grab some soap and a washcloth and two towels. Setting everything on the nightstand next to Marco, I avoid his eyes even though I can feel him watching me. This shouldn’t feel so charged, so erotic—I’m tending to my injured spouse, that’s all—yet as I dip the washcloth in the water and lather it with soap, my body tingles at the idea of running it over his tight abdomen.
“This is a total blow to my manhood,” Marco complains. “I’m not a child.”
I grin and tuck a towel along either side of his body.
“And yet here you are, taking it like a good boy.”
