Even better, warming her deep inside, she woke with Vittorio’s arm around her, her head nestled against his shoulder. She breathed in the scent of his skin, loving it, loving him. Yes, she loved him. It seemed so obvious, so simple, in the clean, healing light of day. Yes, love was confusing and scary and full of sorrow and pain; it was love. Opening your heart and your body and even your soul to another person. Risking everything, your own health and happiness and well-being. And yet gaining so much. Maybe. She pulled away from Vittorio a little so she could look at him; he remained asleep, his features softened, almost gentle in repose. She touched the dark stubble on his chin, felt her heart twist painfully. Yes, love hurt. This love hurt—for, if she loved him, she had no idea if he loved her. Love is a destructive emotion. She was starting to understand why he believed such a thing. Constantia’s love for her husband had been destructive, her unhappiness and despair leading her to unhealthy relationships with both of her sons.
