He nods, satisfied.
I finish cleaning him up and sit back on my haunches, exhaling hard. Everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours is hitting me all at once. The assault. The panic room. Finding out I’m pregnant. The negotiation. My father leaving.
My father.
God. How is he doing right now? Is he home yet? Has he told Mom?
Mom. How is she going to take all this? Her daughter choosing to stay with a Santoro. Her daughter pregnant with a Santoro’s baby. Her daughter not coming home.
She’s going to be devastated. Or furious. Or both. Probably both.
I can feel Leo’s eyes on me.
“Do you regret it?” he asks quietly, and I can hear the apprehension in his voice. “Any of it?”
I shake my head immediately. “No. I don’t regret any of it.”
“Not even?—”
“Not even the beginning,” I interrupt. “I hated you for it. Honestly, I still kind of hate you for it sometimes. But regret it?” I shake my head again. “No. It brought me to you. To us. To this.”
I press my hand to my stomach.
His hand covers mine and it’s warm and solid.
“Do you?” I ask. “Regret any of it?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he sighs and his other hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb stroking my cheekbone gently. “I regret how we started. I’ll probably regret that for the rest of my life. I hate that I did that to you.”
My mouth dries, and I open it to say something.
“But you?” He leans forward and kisses me softly. “Our baby? This?” Another kiss. “Never. I could never regret this.”
He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I kiss him back because I need this. I need him. I need to feel alive and loved after the day we’ve had.
His good hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss even more. His tongue traces my bottom lip and I open for him, letting him take what he needs.
When he pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“Lay back,” he murmurs, and I let him position me on the pillows. He hovers over me with his good arm braced beside my head.
He starts with my shirt, peeling it away from my skin. Every inch of skin he reveals, he kisses. The bruise on my collarbone. The scrape on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers against my skin. “For all of this. For putting you in danger.”
“Stop,” I tell him, my hand coming up to cup his face. “This wasn’t your fault.”
He turns his head and presses a kiss to my palm. “It was,” he insists. “I’m the one who?—”
“Leo.” I pull him down for another kiss, cutting off whatever self-recrimination he was about to spiral into. “Stop apologizing and just…be with me. Please.”
He nods against my lips and continues his exploration. My bra comes off next—he struggles with the clasp one-handed but refuses my help, determined to do this himself. When it finally comes free, he tosses it aside and just looks at me.
His eyes are dark, but he looks at me reverently.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly, his hand skimming up my side, carefully avoiding the worst of my bruises. “Emma, you’re so fucking beautiful.”
“I’m a mess,” I counter, because I’m covered in injuries.