Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she's not salvageable. Maybe the damage was already done before she ever walked into this house, and I'm just watching her finish what someone else started.
Maybe—
No.
No, I don't believe that.
Iwon'tbelieve that.
"Emmaleen." I keep my voice level. Measured. "Giovanni is going to ruin you. Maybe even kill you. Eventually. If this continues?—"
"Then you didn't do your job."
Her words stop me cold. "What?"
"If that happens." She shifts, sitting up fully now, facing me cross-legged on the narrow bed. The nightgown rides up, exposing more welts, more bruises. She doesn't seem to notice. Or care. "If Giovanni ruins me, kills me, destroys whatever's left of who I am—then it means you failed. You didn't protect me. You didn't teach me properly. You didn't make me strong enough to survive him."
I can't speak.
Can't process what she just said.
"That's your purpose, isn't it?" She tilts her head, studying me like I'm the one who needs understanding. "Giovanni breaks. You rebuild. Giovanni pushes. You stabilize. He's thechaos. You're the structure. That's how this works. That's how I survive."
"That's insane."
"Is it?" A small smile touches her lips. Sad. Knowing. "Or is it just the only way someone like me gets to keep someone like him?"
"Emmaleen—"
"You keep telling me I'm losing touch with reality. That I can't tell love from pain anymore. That I'm confusing Giovanni's violence with affection." She leans forward. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. The freckles scattered across her cheeks. "Soshowme."
My breath catches. "Show you…what?"
"Show me what love is." Her hand moves. Slides up my chest, over my shoulder, into my hair. "The real thing. Whatever Giovanni's leaving out. Whatever piece I'm missing. Show me, Jino."
"Emmaleen—"
"But don't leave out the pain." Her voice drops lower. Rougher. "Because I need that too. I need to understand how they fit together. How to hold both at once. Teach me."
I should say no. Should pull away, stand up, walk out of this room and straight to my car. Drive back to my own life, my own contracts, my own carefully maintained boundaries.
But I don't.
"Right now?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
"Right now." No hesitation. "Please."
She takes my hand. The one resting on my thigh, fingers curled into a loose fist.
She unfolds it. Slowly. Deliberately.
Then guides it between her legs.
The heat hits me first. Then the wetness—evidence of arousal despite everything, despite the pain and the bruises and the absolute wrongness of this situation.
Or maybebecauseof all that.
"Emmaleen—"