He remains studying me that crease still between his eyebrows visible beneath the ink. “My appearance isn’t something I think about. You didn’t hurt me.”

The first part of that may be true, but I’m pretty sure the last part isn’t. I know it in fact. The tattoo on his face, the ink covering his torso, his arms, the giant skull on his back, the candles and dim lights, the constant shadow he—we—live in, it’s all to hide the scars at least to some degree. And I think the saddest part is that he does it to hide them from himself not anyone else.

He shifts me off his lap and stands to cross the room into the bathroom.

“Come,” he calls once he’s inside.

I get up, follow him, hearing the shower switch on. I stop at the door and take it in, the dark walls, the sconces that light the space but barely. He stands naked outside the shower stall, gesturing for me to step in. I take in the wide stone counter, two sinks, the free-standing stone bathtub in the middle of the room.

There’s just one thing missing. A mirror.

He watches me, maybe waiting for my reaction. For me to ask why. I don’t need to ask. I know.

I step into the shower, and he follows. I turn to him, and he brings his hand to my face. He cups my jaw, and I look up at him as he smears the stencil. I grab his wrist.

“Don’t.”

He stops, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“I want to see it.”

“No, you do not.” He smears again.

“I do, Santiago.”

He doesn’t reply right away as if gauging the reason behind my request. But then he nods once and leans closer, forearm against the wall, hand over the top of my head, eyes on my eyes, then my lips and I think he’ll kiss me again, another blood-smeared kiss. But he doesn’t. And I’m strangely disappointed.

“Suit yourself.”

He picks up the soap and begins to lather it, then to wash me. Moments like this, he is so gentle that he’s almost tender. It’s so opposite to how he usually is with me that it’s confusing.

“What did you mean? That it’s a matter of life or death for me that I get pregnant?”

He grits his jaw, his gaze focused on the task of cleaning me.

“It means The Tribunal is sparing your life because they believe you are pregnant with my child.”

“What?”

He finishes washing me before washing himself. I smell like him now. Like he did on the night of our wedding in the confessional. Like he has every night he’s come to me. It’s the scent that clings to his pillow and sheets. Subtle, dark, and deeply masculine.