Something fierce and proud flashes across his face. He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. His eyes search mine—asking permission even now.
I don't wait for him to ask.
I close the distance and kiss him. Really kiss him. Not the gentle, careful touches we've been sharing. This is deep and fierce and claiming.
He responds immediately, his other hand coming to my waist and pulling me flush against him. The kiss tastes like freedom. Like taking back everything that was stolen from me.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"I love you," I tell him, needing him to hear it. "I'm still broken in a lot of ways. Still scared. Still have a long way to go. But I love you."
"You're not broken." His forehead rests against mine. "You're healing. There's a difference."
"Then I'm healing." I can almost believe it. "And I want to keep healing with you."
"Always." He kisses me again. Softer this time. A promise. "However long it takes."
I pull back and take his hand. "Come on. Let's go tell Vito I've made my decision."
As we walk down the hallway toward the elevator, I can feel the weight I've been carrying start to lift.
Ronan is dead. The man who hurt me—who violated me—is gone.
And I'm the one who ended him.
More than that—I kissed Marco. Let him touch me. Pulled him closer instead of pushing him away.
Maybe that's what healing looks like. Not some grand moment of suddenly being fixed. Just small victories stacked on top of each other until one day you realize you're not drowning anymore.
I'm not there yet. But I'm getting closer.
And that has to count for something.
CHAPTER 40
Marco
Back in my apartment,Elena heads straight for the bathroom without a word. I follow at a distance, giving her space but staying close.
She's covered in blood. Ronan's blood. It stains her hands, her clothes, specks of it across her face.
The shower turns on. Steam begins to fill the bathroom. She stands there staring at the running water like she's not sure what to do next.
"Let me help," I say quietly.
She turns to look at me. For a moment I think she'll refuse. Tell me she can handle it herself like she's been doing for days.
Instead, she nods.
I move closer.
She meets my hands when I reach for the hem of her top. The fabric comes away damp and stiff; it peels off like a bandage.
Her bra comes next. Then her pants. Each piece of clothing removed reveals more bruises—yellow and green now, healing but still visible reminders of what happened.
She doesn't flinch when I touch her. Doesn't pull away.
She turns. For one ridiculous beat I forget how to move. The bruise at the edge of her jaw, the faint purpling along her ribs—every mark has a story I don’t need to know to be sick of hearing. She nods, the tiniest, fragile permission. She’s naked, really naked. Open, vulnerable, and brave.
