Chapter 80

ROSALIND

When I wake up again, the cabin is much darker, with no traces of sunlight streaming through the blinds. Cesare hands me my phone, where there's the sweetest message from Miranda, telling me to feel better soon.

I lie on my back playing it over and over, my eyes filling with happy tears and my heart swelling with love. Cesare gazes down at me with a soft smile.

"Did you ask her to record this?" I croak.

He raises a shoulder. "I asked her for ideas on what you like to eat, and she dragged the information out of me about your cramps."

I'm almost certain it's a lie, but I don't push. Cesare has single-handedly built a connection between my daughter and me, something I struggled to manage in a decade. Thanks to him, she sees me as someone worthy of love.

"How are the cramps?" he asks.

"Duller," I reply with a smile.

His gaze travels down my bare chest to the sheets puddled around my middle. "I hoped the heating pad would make a difference. The stewardess brought a range of painkillers, but you should also take magnesium."

I sit up, leaning my back against the headrest, and watch Cesare walk to the dresser where he's lined up a range of pill bottles. His muscles ripple on his back, making the skull tattoos come to life. His hair is untied, forming loose waves that cascade toward his broad shoulders.

Sometimes, that masculine beauty is jarring, although I can't fathom why. If I focus on how good he looks, it hurts.

"Ibuprofen okay? If you want something stronger, I got hold of mefenamic acid, but I have others if you want something different."

Warmth spreads through my heart at this saner, less sadistic version of Cesare who wants to give me choices.

"I've only ever had naproxen, but that was years ago," I reply.

He selects a bottle and brings it over with a glass of water. When my stomach rumbles, he frowns.

"Hungry, love?" he asks.

"I didn't eat at the lab with all those chemicals," I mutter. "If you have a snack bar or some nuts?—"

"How would you like zucchini pasta with avocado Alfredo?" he asks as he hands me a glass of water and two pills.

"How did you—" I shake off the question. "Miranda?"

He chuckles. "She told me all about your fixation with raw vegan food. I arranged for the chef of the Raw Kitchen to come over and fix you a meal."

My eyes narrow. "When you say arranged, does that mean abducting her at gunpoint?"

"I bought out the restaurant for the night and paid double her usual rate to come and cook."

"There's no cooking in raw food." I knock back the pills, swallowing them down with the water.

He grins. "That's what she said. She's waiting in the galley for your order."

The warm feeling in my chest turns to a flutter. "That's… Thank you. Can I borrow some clothes?"

His gaze darts to the room's low table, which is covered in piles of boxes. My smile falters at the reminder of the lingerie and leather he forced me to wear to his family dinner, but he takes my hand.

"It's not what you're thinking. The owner of Dolce Vita called earlier to arrange a delivery of the items you ordered."

I straighten. "Oh."

"Would you like a massage before your shower?"

"Don't tell me you hired a professional to massage my knots?"

"Not exactly." His lips tick up in a smirk, and his eyes twinkle with mischief.

My brows rise. "You?"

He nods, all traces of amusement fading into something serious.

I can't handle this kinder version of Cesare who isn't being overbearing or calling me his pet. That was a man I mildly despised, but at least I knew his motives.

Bitter experience has taught me that powerful men are only generous and nice when they want more than you're prepared to give. Kindness is only a trap men use before they unleash their inner monster.

"You've done enough," I mutter, my gaze dropping to my lap.

"Don't fight me. I need this just as much as you."

"Why?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.

"I don't know how else to say I'm sorry," he replies.

"You've already apologized."

"But it's not enough," he growls. "I have to make things right."

"Cesare," I say with an exasperated sigh. "You're doing enough."

"Then why can't you look me in the eye?"

My gaze snaps up to his face, which is a mask of pain and frustration. He breathes hard, running his fingers through his hair. I've never seen Cesare look so agitated. Not even when I refused to crack under interrogation.

Maybe my past has skewed my instincts. Maybe there's something beautiful seeing the monster before the man. At least this way, the personality switch isn't so jarring.

"You can't undo what happened, and nothing I say will erase the memory of what you did," I say, my voice measured. "I know you're sorry, but the person who needs to do the forgiveness is you."

His brows pull together and draws me closer. "What do you mean?"

"You're punishing yourself, Cesare," I murmur, reaching up to touch his cheek. He leans into the contact, closing his eyes. "This guilt you're feeling isn't about me. This is about you."

"How do you cope as an assassin?" he says.

"I haven't killed as many men as you think," I say with a smile. "And everyone who died at my hands was a terrible human being."

His shoulders sag. "I've never felt bad about hurting anyone who was a threat to the family."

"When did you realize I was different?"

"I should have known it the moment you sacrificed yourself to save Miranda. It didn't register because I'd do the same for my brothers. When I found out you were her mother, it all clicked into place."

"You don't like hurting mothers?" I ask.

"Any woman who brings life into the world and would sacrifice everything to save their child deserves my respect," he says, his voice hoarse.

I pull him down on the mattress beside me, threading my fingers through his hair. He stiffens at first, then he relaxes enough to rest his head on my shoulder. "Thank you."

"For what?" he rasps.

"For saving me from a painful and humiliating death," I reply. "For leaving Dr. Daniel alive enough to be interrogated. For everything you've done to help Miranda and me."

He exhales, his breath warm and ragged.

"This is the part where you say you're welcome," I say.

He chuckles, but the sound carries no mirth. "I should have done more."

"Would it help if I told you I wasn't sorry?"

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"Teaming up with you is the best thing that's happened to me in years." I massage his scalp. His eyes remain shut, but his features finally relax. I add, "You accomplished everything I struggled to do for Miranda without even trying."

"Let me erase that man's touch," he says.

"You don't have to do that," I murmur.

His fingertips brush my thighs, a featherlight touch that sends shivers down my spine. "If any man's touch is going to linger on your skin, it should be mine."