Chapter 6: Not Fragile, Angry

I could not sleep in the Ravello guest room.

At two in the morning I put on the robe his aunt had left on the chair and went looking for a glass of water.

There was a light under the study door.

I pushed it open without knocking.

Stefano sat behind a wide desk with his sleeves rolled to the elbow and a glass of whiskey at his hand.

He looked up, and every paper on the desk stopped mattering.

"You should be in bed," he said.

"I've been in bed in that house for nine years."

I crossed the room.

"Rocco touched me exactly three times last year. Once to move me out of a doorway."

"Cosima."

"I want to know what it's like to be touched by a man who isn't taking something."

He stood up so fast the chair hit the wall.

"You've lost two pints of blood in three days."

"I've got plenty left."

I stopped in front of him.

He smelled of soap and whiskey and woodsmoke.

I put my hand flat against his chest, and under it his heart was hammering.

"You carried me up the steps," I said. "I'm not fragile. I'm angry."

"I know."

"Then do something about it."

He took my face in both hands and kissed me.

It was not careful.

It was a hard, hungry kiss that tasted of whiskey, and I opened my mouth under his and pulled him closer by his shirt.

He made a low sound in his throat.

He backed me against the edge of the desk, and papers slid to the floor.

I untied my own robe and let it fall.

I had nothing on underneath.

His eyes went down my body and came back up slowly.

"Christ," he said. "Look at you."

"Look later."

He picked me up by the waist and set me on the desk.

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