But tonight, in this borrowed room in this sterile penthouse, the only thing crystal clear is this,
running would be smarter.
Safer.
But when his hands were on my skin, when his mouth was on mine, when he looked at me like I was the only real thing in his violent world—
Safety stopped mattering.
Chapter Eight
Alessandro
Sleep refuses to come.
The penthouse is silent except for the ambient hum of the city thirty floors below. Every shadow could be a threat. Every creak of settling steel and glass sends adrenaline spiking. Old habits die hard, and the habit of sleeping with one eye open has kept me alive for fifteen years.
That, and the knowledge that Elena is down the hall in the guest room, vulnerable and trusting and completely unprepared for the kind of violence that follows men like me.
The clock on the nightstand reads 2:47 AM when soft footsteps pad down the hallway. Every muscle tenses, hand instinctively reaching for the gun on the nightstand before recognition kicks in. Those footsteps are too light, too hesitant. Not a threat.
Elena.
The bedroom door opens slowly, a sliver of hallway light cutting through the darkness. She’s silhouetted in the doorway, small, uncertain, wearing what looks like an oversized t-shirt that hits mid-thigh.
“Alessandro?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Are you awake?”
Sitting up triggers the motion sensor on the bedside lamp, casting soft light across the room. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“No, nothing happened. I just—” She wraps her arms around herself. “I couldn’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that brick coming through the window. Or that man in my shop. Or—” Her breath hitches. “Is it okay if I stay here? Just for a little while?”
Every rational thought screams this is a terrible idea. Elena in the guest room is manageable. Elena in this room, in a t-shirt, looking vulnerable and beautiful and completely off-limits, that’s a special kind of torture.
“Of course.” The words come out rougher than intended. “Come here.”
She crosses to the bed, and up close the t-shirt is revealed to be one of mine, she must have found it in the guest room closet. It swallows her frame, the collar slipping off one shoulder, and the sight of her wearing something of mine does something primal to my chest.
“Which side do you want?” The question is practical, normal, as if sharing a bed with the woman slowly unraveling every defense mechanism is completely fine.
“I don’t care. Whichever you’re not using.”
“Right side, then.” The covers are pulled back, an invitation and a test of self-control.
Elena climbs in, keeping a careful distance. The bed is king-sized, plenty of room for two people to sleep without touching. But somehow, even with a foot of space between us, her presence is overwhelming, the scent of her shampoo, the sound of her breathing, the warmth radiating from her skin.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For letting me stay. For not... judging.”
“There’s nothing to judge. After what you went through today, anyone would be shaken.”
“You’re not shaken.”
“Years of practice.”
She turns on her side to face me, head propped on one hand. In the dim light, her honey-colored eyes are dark, searching. “How many years?”
“Too many to count.”
“That’s not an answer.”
