“I’m not afraid of you,” I say. “Not ever. I just want you to know that.”
“Good.” Cayce’s mouth twitches once—not joy, not triumph. A recognition of balance restored. He kisses my knuckles, then my mouth, quick, like a signature. “Let’s get you home.”
“Home,” I echo.
The boat lifts from the dock like it has always been ours. The villa recedes. The horizon opens. I’m barefoot, in a dress that will need a priest and a dry-cleaner, with a taser in my pocket and a husband whose monsters know my name. I sit. I breathe. I keep my eyes on the line where the dark meets the dark and imagine building a sky where we decide who gets to stand under it.
Now there’s only one man standing in our way.
19
CAYCE
She’s home,but her body hasn’t caught up.
The doctor we trust cleared her. No concussion, no broken ribs, only a few bruises where angry hands got ideas. Good news. Useless news. The distance isn’t in her skin; it’s behind her eyes. She’s standing at the window, staring off into the distance at something I can’t see, breathing like she’s keeping time for someone else.
Pru dropped food on the counter and threatened to force-feed Cat, and swore she’d cut my balls off if I let my wife get sick.
Tiernan swept the house twice and posted men where shadows think they’re safe. Don Marco sat at our table and drank water like it was penance and promised me anything that starts with the word “war.”
Then they all left because I asked them to. It’s quiet now. Just us. A streetlight paints the ceiling in lines. The city hum is soft as wool.
“Caterina.”
Her name should pull her straight home. It doesn’t. It drifts over her like incense and touches, but doesn’t stick.
I come to stand beside her and take her hand. Warm. Present. Not here. I press my mouth to her knuckles and count to five. “Look at me.”
She does, slow, like surfacing. Focus finds me by degrees. I keep still so she doesn’t have to chase.
“I’m here,” I tell her. “We made it out. You’re not there.”
Her throat works. “I know that with my head. And I was fine when we were leaving.”
“And your body?”
“It’s misplaced,” she says, trying to smile and running out of energy halfway.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s bring it back.”
She blinks once, wary. I don’t blame her. After a night like that, most men make the mistake of stepping away from touch. I’ve learned better. What shock steals from her, I can call home with attention, with heat, with yes. Not a distraction. A map.
“Tell me what you need,” I ask.
Her fingers tighten in mine. “You.”
I lean closer. “Then let me.”
I strip her and sink to my knees, mapping her for harm. A scrape at her knee. A bruise just starting at her hip. I kiss both marks with the kind of care that rewrites the night—my mouth laying down truth where fear tried to make a home. She shivers. Good. She’s hearing me.
“Mine to keep safe,” I murmur against her skin. “Mine to bring back.”
I ease her onto the bed and part her thighs with my hands, slow, deliberate, like opening a book I memorized before I knew language. I kiss the inside of her knee, then higher, then higher still, every touch a claim and a prayer. When my mouth finds her heat, she jerks—a live wire finally catching spark. I moan into her, greedy, and work her with my tongue until the first sound breaks loose from her chest. Not fear. Want.
“That’s it,” I tell her, voice rough. “Come back to me.”
I keep it relentless—worship and demand in equal measure—my mouth learning her again while my hands hold her steady. She clutches at my hair and the sheet and then at nothing, like she can’t decide where to anchor.
