Has been, for a while now. Since the moment she smiled at a customer who didn’t deserve her kindness. Since she stood her ground when she should have backed down. Since she made me feel something other than cold calculation and quiet fury.
I stroke her hair softly, letting my fingers trail along the curve of her cheek.
I won’t let her go back to that shoebox apartment. Not with men like Viktor banging at the door. Not with debt collectors circling like vultures and brothers who leave her to take the fall.
She deserves more than that.
She deservesme.
When she stirs, her lashes flutter before her eyes blink open slowly.
She shifts against me, stretching slightly and freezes.
I’m hard.
Of course I am. I’ve had her in my arms all night, her scent in my lungs, her warmth seeping into every part of me, and I’ve been nothing but still.
Until now.
She glances down, her eyes wide, then looks up at me.
“I—I didn’t mean to?—”
“You didn’t do anything,” I say, voice rough. “It’s not your problem.”
But she bites her lip. Shifts just a little closer.
“Maybe I want it to be,” she whispers.
My breath catches.
I lean up onto one elbow, looking at her fully. She’s nervous. Flushed. But not afraid. Not ofme.
“Erin…”
She doesn’t look away. “Is it okay?”
That’s when I break. But just before I lean down to kiss her, I say the one thing I probably shouldn’t.
“I’ve been watching you. For weeks. Following you home, stalking you.”
Her brows lift, but not in horror. Not in fear. Just surprise.
“Stalking me?”
I nod. “Every night. Notte Bianca. That wasn’t business. I came foryou.”
I wait for her to pull away. Any sensible woman would. And why not? I've just admitted to her that I'm a monster. That I'm capable of things darker than she can ever imagine.
But she doesn't pull away.
Instead, she smiles—slow, radiant.
“Okay,” she says. “Good.”
“Good?”
She nods, shy and glowing. “That means I wasn’t imagining it. The way you looked at me. I thought I was crazy.”
