Marco knew he hadn't been romantic. He wasn't; he hadn't been raised to be a wellspring of tenderness, but he had tried not to startle her. However, the desire to take her the way he liked was still there, and having her rub her nose against his chest like that was breaking his resolve to let her rest. The moment her hand slid over his stomach, he groaned, and she stopped, holding her hand.
"Baby, are you mad at me?"
"No."
"I wanted to do things properly and have you in our bed, but you were too scared there."
"If you had tried something in the room, I wouldn't have pushed you away, I promised, but I think I would have panicked."
"Don't you like our room?"
"The picture on the headboard."
The painting depicted a cold night, reminding her of the attack.
"Why didn't you remove it?"
"
