“I don’t remember how young I was when it started. Maybe three or four? My parents gave him permission to do it, because he brought them drugs and that was all that mattered to them,” he admitted. I couldn’t stop the gasp that erupted from my throat or the way my hands left the scarred mess of his back to press against my mouth.
Like I could take it back. Silence it.
“They died when I was seven. My sister and I fled to the streets, not trusting any of the authorities to help us because…”
“Because your abuser was a cop,” I said, trying not to grasp onto the fact that he had a sister. I’d never heard anyone mention her before, and dread settled in my body.
“We lived on the streets. I stole and scrounged what we needed and then sold my body when I got older to pay for food and things like that, became a willing whore for anyone who wanted to use me if it meant I could protect Cesca,” he said.
“You weren’t a whore. You were a fucking child, and the world failed you,” I said, the venom in my voice feeling all-consuming as he spun to his back and grabbed my face between both hands.
His thumbs brushed against the tears staining my cheeks, wiping them away. “Just like you aren’t dirty for what you did for Madison,” he said, the comparison settling inside of me.
Two halves. One whole.
This man was my everything. He was the other part of my soul staring back at me.
“What happened to her?” I asked, knowing without a doubt that Scar would never have willingly been distant from the sister he wanted so desperately to protect. That kind of sacrifice didn’t just disappear.
“An accidental overdose when we were teens. Heroin,” he admitted. The memory of his searing kiss when I’d spoken of the rehabilitation center at the new location spread through me, making so much more sense in the wake of his confession. “Addiction runs in my blood. Evil runs in my blood. That’s why…” He paused, heaving a deep lungful of air as if what came next would be the worst confession of all.
“What?” I asked, leaning into his touch. Whatever they’d done, whatever he had to say, nothing could change that it wasn’t his fault.
“That’s why I had a vasectomy years ago. I can never give you children, Irina. I can give you me. I can give you my world and anything else your heart desires. But I can never, and will never, give you children,” he said.
Relief flooded me, realizing how much sooner we should have had this conversation. He’d been tormented by the thought that he couldn’t give me something I wanted, never realizing that I didn’t actually want it at all.
“I don’t want biological children,” I said, watching as his lips parted in shock. “I want to adopt. There are so many kids out there who need loving homes, I can’t see bringing another one into the world. Is that okay? Would we be able to adopt a child in a few years?”
“You want to adopt?” he asked, his lips tipping into a smile as if it all made sense.
“I want to adopt a child with you,” I agreed, leaning forward to touch my lips to his. “When we’re ready. If you’re ever ready.”
“Butterfly, haven’t I told you? I can do anything for you. If you want to adopt a child, then we’ll adopt a child. We’ll adopt an entire hoard of them and give them a warm, loving home where they’re safe.”
“That sounds like heaven,” I admitted, thinking of the half a dozen kids I wanted running around my house every day. Thinking of the shrieks of joy and happiness and everything beautiful in life.
“You’re my heaven,” Scar said, rolling me beneath him. I didn’t know about that, but I did know that he made me see God by the time he was done with me.
62
SCAR
“Absolutely not,” I warned, the tone of my voice allowing no argument from any normal person who valued their life. Irina was not a normal person, her fear of me severely lacking despite the way I fucked her every night.
She trusted me not to hurt her, not to overstep the power she’d willingly given me and the way that she allowed me to debase her.
I’d never thought about calling a woman a slut before in my life, but something about my connection with Irina left no boundary untouched. I could praise her. I could degrade her.
She’d beg me for more and know that nothing that happened between us during sex extended beyond it. We both needed it filthy.
We craved it hot and hard.
“Excuse me?” Irina asked, something in her green eyes sparkling with defiance. The sight of it nearly drove me to my knees, the desire to show her just how much I loved it when she challenged me washing over me like a flood.
That strength of hers, after nearly losing her to the trauma she’d sustained, was the greatest aphrodisiac I’d ever known. The fact that the same woman who challenged me so viciously was the girl who’d kneel at my feet and lick her pussy off my cock if I so much as snapped my fingers only heightened it.
Nobody in this world commanded Irina Ryan.
Nobody except me.
“You heard me, Butterfly. It’s too dangerous,” I said, shaking my head again and crossing my arms over my chest.
“I have to go back sometime,” she said, raising her brow at me.
“Sometime will be after Darragh is fucking dead,” I told her, crossing the living area in our suite to stand in front of her. Everything in her tensed, readying herself for the fight she knew was coming if she didn’t back down and tame the defiance she wound herself up for.
Irina could be sweet and submissive, but she could also be a demon sent straight from the pits of Hell to make me question my sanity for how much I loved it.
There was no in between.
“I’m going,” she said, cocking a hip out to the side. She was already dressed for the office in a pencil skirt, wrapped snugly around her hips, a fitted blouse covering her torso, and with her trademark red lipstick painted on her mouth.
The color would forever remind me of Darragh’s note, but Irina didn’t need to know that. I wouldn’t allow him to steal something else from her, especially something that was so clearly a part of her identity.
“I’d like to see you try,” I said, chuckling darkly at the incredulous expression that crossed her face. I would physically stop her from leaving the Bellandi Estate if need be.
“Paolo De Luca,” she hissed.
“If you so much as try to leave this house today, I will tie you to our bed,” I said, unable to resist the pleasure that claimed me with my full name on her lips. Nobody else called me that name, the ghost of a boy I’d long thought dead coming back to life with her.
It made me hate her name, hate that she shared a name with the woman who had been responsible for my sister’s death.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she gasped, staring at me with her lips parted in shock.
“I wouldn’t dare spend the day between your legs? I think we both know I would,” I said, stepping closer to her. I raised a hand, reaching out to touch her face.
She slapped my touch away, the smack echoing through the room as I tilted my head to stare at her. “You do not get to fucking touch me right now,” she growled. “I am not your property. You will not tell me how to live my life outside of this room,” she said, gesturing to the bedroom door at our side.