Lucian’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. I keep going.
“Beat me up. Remo watched. My grandfather…that’s when he knew I needed to get away. I moved to New York. I was eighteen. Changed my name. Got a degree. Took over the shelter.”
I play with the fringe of the heather gray blanket he put over me. It matches my clothes, which he bought. It’s how he lives, I think, black and white, and all the shades in between.
“Giuseppe…my grandfather, recently died. Remo is consolidating. He wants me dead so that the man I marry, or my children, can never claim his throne.” I groan. “Like I’d want it. I ran away from it.”
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. I lift a shoulder and let it drop. “Anyway…that’s all.”
Silence falls. Stretches. It’s good. Healing.
No one has ever taken care of me like this—physically, emotionally.
He fed me, bathed me, and saved me. He has no reason to do any of this, except maybe he was hired to do it, which makes no sense since he’s a corporate type.
But he doesn’t move like a suit. He seems more like someone from my old world.
“What do you want to do?” he asks, like no matter what I demand, it will be mine.
It’s intoxicating, this permission he’s giving me.
“I want to stop running,” I whisper.
He extends his hand and touches mine, light and tentative, like he’s asking for permission, like he doesn’t know how to because he’s used to simply taking what he wants.
I turn my hand.
We touch palm to palm.
Our fingers interlace. It’s intimate. Sensual.
“Then stop running.”
“What if I fall?”
I can’t believe I’m saying what I am saying. I can’t believe I’m trusting this man I don’t know.
“I won’t let you,” he insists.
Then things move fast. He grabs my hand and hauls me to him.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he whispers.
He slams his mouth against mine. Our first kiss. It’s not soft, not tentative.
It’s heat and hunger and a kind of ache I didn’t know I was holding in my chest until now.
I respond with abandon.
It’s wrong. It’s not smart. It’s going to end up hurting me in ways that won’t be easy to heal from.
I don’t care. I feel alive. Iwant tofeel alive.
When we pull apart, he keeps me close, on his lap. I like it.
“You didn’t tell me anything about yourself,” I murmur.
He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. His eyes flicker, shadowed. “I know.”
