Book 3: Perfect

Eleni

Over my clothes, under the blankets, Dante cups me like I’m made of glass. My thin shirt can’t disguise the warmth of his skin, and though my whole body still aches, I want to tell him to treat me like normal. He thumbs over my nipple, and I arch up, tilting my head back toward the ceiling. In my mind’s eye, I see the crack I tracked during the endless hours of my capture.

I shut my eyes. “Fuck me like you would if we were there.”

“Quietly?” Dante’s voice holds the ghost of a smile. “We have a lot of children and Mama not to wake up.”

I picture a whitewashed house in Greece, next to the restaurant rather than on top of it, with a cozy front garden covered in plastic kids toys, far enough outside the city that I can commute and far enough away that the air tastes clean. A small grove of olive trees in the back where we picnic. I can almost taste the salt of the sea, just like Mama always described from home. In the darkness, it’s easy to