If he could see himself from afar, the desperation he can taste suffocating his lungs and constricted in his throat with the alienable fear that she has every power to turn him away and never speak word to him again ––– he would have made himself laugh, once. Salvatore D’Ambrosio, breaker of hearts and thief of sweet smiles all across Firenze. He knew the icy demeanor of a lady’s armor, the defence of coldness against his cruel charm once a passionate night had become an indifferent morning. But never had he been affected like this. Never had he felt so much for a woman that a single twitch of her lips, the flicker of her eyes, could bring him to his knees. It was a double-edged blade. So, too, could her words leave their mark, lashes against bare skin that stung with their abruptness and civility. Even now, she insisted on propriety, when he was teetering on the edge of madness.
Had he not spent every moment they were together ensuring she knew? She was the one person for whom his horizons were endless, where temptation could not touch him so long as he was by her side. He had been selfish, before he met her. Selfish and wilful and concerned only for himself, for his desires, leaving Italy a mere boy who sought every pleasure the world had to offer and arriving in England as if the world lay at his feet to plunder and conquer. A man who knew nothing of what it meant to love anyone save for himself. She had changed all of it. Him. He had been made a better man simply for having known her. How could she not know that? How could she not know there was not another soul on this earth that could make him feel like half the man he was when he was with her? But then, even if he she had known that as surely as she knew his name, eight years would have been enough to erase even the memory of it. Eight years was enough to ruin every wild declaration he had made and every promise of forever, as if their love could have made him immortal.
Salvatore never should have left. That was the truth of it. He would have travelled to the ends of the earth for her yet he could not fight for his own father for the right to stay in London and marry the woman he loved? Surely... surely if he had explained to her, she would have still loved him if he were nameless and penniless. Pride kept him from revealing the truth to her, and still it kept him silent and ashamed. He had written of his plans to her, what he would do once he had taken charge of his inheritance and his parents could no more withhold it from him then forbid him to marry. Perhaps she had burned every single letter he sent and never read a word of them. “Please... Please do not say that. There is everything to be said,” he said softly, hesitant, his seriousness steeped with longing. “I have so many apologies to make ––– so many... I am sorry. Let us at least start there.”
Contrary to his earlier wish for familiarity, his sorrow at the coldness of her reception, it gave him no pleasure to see her hurting. To stand here and see how she had suffered these eight years –– what he would have given to rewrite the past. “How little you must think of me,” Salvatore whispered lightly, his smile tinged with sadness. “And why would you think otherwise, when I gave you so little reason to believe me? I had merely hoped... I had hoped you would have believed my love for you was enough to...” His voice petered out, and not even the rueful lift of the corner of his mouth could conceal the weight upon his shoulders, remorse and guilt dragging every inch of him to the earth when once his love for her had been like endless freedom. “Sciocco. I have no right to demand anything of you... But please do not ask me to lie, to betray all that has kept me willing to live all these years. Nothing is simple about us, I fear.”
Haunt her? She was the one who had haunted him all these years, even when he had given up dreaming of any likeness of her to stay and keep him warm, he could never truly shake her. She had left his mark on her, indelibly. He could no more stop thinking of her and wanting her then he could stop breathing. It was not useless, he wanted to argue, it was anything but, just say the word and he would move heaven and earth so they could ––––
“You ––– you are...” Salvatore flinched, taking half a step backwards. Engaged. Sworn to another. Just as he was, that cruel, dark place in his heart whispered to him. Was it not exactly like fate to cast misfortune upon him just as he had begun to believe the heavens were smiling upon him? Both of them, at once. Time had passed though, this was... this was nothing that he had not expected. He had merely, foolishly hoped. As he was learning now, hope was the language of children, of dreams that were never to become reality. “You are engaged,” he echoed, once he had found his voice once more. Salvatore cleared his throat, gathered his courage, and lifted his eyes to meet her as a man worthy of her forgiveness, and perhaps even, one day, her love. “Then I... I have something to confess as well. I, too, am engaged. I waited as long as I could, but my parents would not have it.” They would not let me marry you and so I am marrying another.
And like most reckless decisions Salvatore had made in his life, he strode right into this one with the certainty of his conviction. “That is why I am here. I chose to visit London one last time before I had to be... married. But I will not marry. Not her.” Not anyone but Josephine. “I will do anything I must to earn your forgiveness if not your heart, Josephine. That is all I have dreamed of these past eight years. Do not make me say I do not love you when it is the only thing that has kept me sane, the only thing I will ever know without doubt. If it takes me weeks, or months, to prove my intentions were and always are true, then so be it. I would not have the only woman I have ever felt for like this uncertain as to how ardently I love her.”
dailybridgerton
amandla
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
gracieabrams
