I groan, and he hugs me closer, and when I’m alert again, I feel the vibration of the moving car beneath me, and panic sets in. They’re moving me again. I’m on the floor of that car again.
“Shh. You’re safe. I’m here.”
Santiago.
He pets my hair, fingers gentle, and I take in the scent of him. It’s not those men. I’m not on the floor of the car. I’m lying on leather, and my head is on his lap, his hands gentle. He wasn’t gentle a little while ago. Not with that doctor. Not with the man.
“Shh,” he repeats, telling me over and over again that he’s here, and that I’m safe.
I’m quiet again. Heavy. When I stop fighting it, I feel myself relax so completely it’s tempting to give over to it.
I’m safe.
Santiago is here. I am safe.
The baby, though. Our baby. I try to concentrate, to mentally scan my body. I’d feel if they’d done it, wouldn’t I? If they'd taken the baby. Does Santiago know what they did? Did he arrive in time to stop it?
An immense sadness tugs me back into a reality I can’t quite join yet as the drug continues to leave me paralyzed.
“Shh,” Santiago starts again, repeating those same reassuring words again and again and again. I want to ask him about the baby. I need to know. But my mind is as fuzzy as my limbs are heavy, and I drift off again to the soothing sound of his voice.
* * *
I hear lowered voices as I begin to wake. I turn my head and breathe in a familiar scent. The pillow I’m lying on is soft and warm. His. One of the voices I hear is Santiago’s. He’s talking to another man, but I don’t recognize the other voice, and I can’t make out their words.
When I finally manage to open my eyes, I see the empty pillow beside me. The armchair across the room. And I know I’m home. In Santiago’s room. In his bed.
He has his back to me. He’s standing just outside the open door, whispering to another man.
I open my mouth to say something, but all that comes out is a croaking sound. My throat is so dry. But it’s enough because Santiago turns, and our eyes meet. He hurries to me, and all I can do is reach for him, hold on to him. My fingers curl into his shoulders, the nails broken, the skin of my wrists bruised as he sits on the edge of the bed, takes my face into his hands, and just looks at me for a long, long time.
I think in the days we’ve been apart, he’s aged.
Again, I try to speak, but I can't. He puts a glass to my lips. I sip the cool water but only manage a little.
“You’re back,” he says, attempting a smile, and without warning, it’s as though a dam breaks. All the anxiety, the doubt, the fear comes pouring out of me in loud, ugly, choking sobs. He pulls my head into his chest, holding on to me. One big hand cups my head while the other rubs circles into my back.
I cling to him. I cling as if I would die without him.
“Did they...” I trail off.
He draws back, shakes his head. “No. We were in time.”
I suck in a sob. “Thank goodness.”
The door clicks as someone closes it. He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my mouth, all the while whispering that it will be all right. That I’m safe. The baby is safe. That we're home.
Through the blur, I see his face, familiar and dark. I take it into my hands, feeling his warmth, the soft, scarred flesh, thumbs on lips, lips on lips, the salt of tears as we kiss. I push away his shirt, popping the buttons when I slide my hands underneath to touch him, needing his skin, needing to burrow closer, kissing him while my fingers brush over years-old scars. I want them to become familiar. I want to memorize them. To know the past the ink hides. To see the broken man hidden beneath.
He draws back, but I pull at him. I need to be close. To touch him. To feel him.
“I need you,” I manage.
He hesitates, but a moment later, he slips the nightgown I’m wearing over my head. I’m naked and shivering until he takes me into his arms again, skin on skin, his shirt gone, ripped away, my hands on his face as I memorize his eyes, feel the stubble that grows on the un-inked side of his face. My gaze follows the path of my own hands over his neck, shoulders, chest as he lays me on my back and straddles me, keeping his weight on his forearms while my fingers trace over skin and scars and ink.
I see the bandages that circle my wrists before I close my eyes and feel him kiss me, kiss my face, my neck, my breasts. I wrap my legs around him, wanting him inside me. Needing him inside me.
He draws back just a little, eyes locked on mine, and I hear the buckle of his belt, the zipper of his pants, and then he’s at my entrance. I draw in a rattling breath, and I watch him as he pushes inside me, watch how his eyes shift, darken, pupils dilated, skin flushed, mouth open just a little as he dips his head down to kiss me, gentle at first, then as the fucking grows more frantic, teeth scraping teeth as he says my name again and again like he needs this too, as much as I do.
One hand wraps around the top of my head, and the other closes over my shoulder. His eyes lock on mine with the final thrusts, and when we come, it’s a deep, slow thing, not frantic, not hurried, neither of
