I close my eyes for a moment, because something inside me, something older than fear, shifts at those words. At last, I feel the weight of the oath loosen just enough to take a full breath.
The villa is quiet except for the sound of wind moving through the broken shutters. Dawn spills across the floor in long, pale lines. She’s still sitting there, still watching me, still not running.
I don’t feel like a weapon. I feel like a man.
12
KALEIGH
The villa is silent except for the whisper of the wind through cracked shutters and the distant sigh of olive branches brushing against broken stone walls. When I finally drift off to sleep, I lie awake for hours, tangled in thoughts, staring at moonlight ghosts dancing across the cracked ceiling.
The room smells of dust and dry earth, interwoven with the lingering scent of him: sweat, leather, blood, something like rain yet to fall. The mattress beneath me sags in places, the blanket coarse against my skin, but none of it matters. My mind churns, a storm with no thunder, only currents, swirling in the space behind my eyes.
When I speak, I do it because silence feels dishonest. I push myself upright, legs folding beneath me, and shift until I face him. He is still propped against the wall, half in shadow, half in soft light from the window. His arms are wrapped around himself, the pillow under his head disturbed, as though he’s been restless. He looks tired, older than the day demands, as though the weight of his secrets pressed him down even in sleep.
I breathe in, hearing creaks in the floorboards as the villa settles again, houses shifting with the night. “I’m not goinganywhere,” I say in a low voice. The words echo off the empty room, soft but firm. My heart hammers painfully because admitting something draws lines between us where there were none.
His eyes open slowly. At first they’re dark, unreadable, then gold flickers behind the dark, the same molten shimmer I glimpsed in the ring. But now it’s dimmed, human edges restored. He lifts his hand, dragging fingers through his hair, turning his face toward me. “You don’t have to say that,” he murmurs, tone cautious.
“I’m not saying it for you,” I reply, shifting off the mattress to sit cross-legged closer to his side. My skirt brushes dust from the floor; the room feels colder than it was. “I’m saying it because it’s true for me.”
He studies me, jaw tight, eyes narrowing as though replaying old fears and new questions. “You don’t know what staying means,” he says finally, voice low.
I tilt my head, letting moonlight touch half my face, lighting the worry lines I trace at night. “Then show me,” I whisper. “Tell me what it looks like in your world. Because right now, everything I know of you—violence, silence, secrets—makes me want to understand the parts you never show.”
He exhales, a slow release, and pushes himself into a sitting position, leaning forward with elbows on knees. His muscles shift beneath his shirt, the light revealing taut planes. “This isn’t a case study, Kay,” he says, and his voice carries something like regret though he doesn’t let it get loud.
“I know that,” I say. I tuck my hair behind my ear. My palms feel clammy, but I keep my posture steady. “You’re more than what I see on paper. You’re more than what anyone tried to make you believe.”
He shifts his weight, glancing to the window before returning his gaze to me. The villa sits in imperfect quiet outside, thetiles cracked, vines crawling up walls, the old fountain in the courtyard dry and cracked. The morning beyond the shuttered panes is pale, forgiving. I want to offer him that morning, this space between night and day, as something safe.
“You speak like you’ve lived this before,” he murmurs. “Like you’ve seen this damage.”
I pause. I’ve sat with men hollowed out by grief, women who wore wounds on their skin, voices trembling with things unspoken. I’ve listened while they trembled and asked questions while they hardened. I’ve carried their fear in my own bones. It’s part of the job. But with him it’s different. Not distance, but magnetism, a pull into something forbidden and raw.
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve seen damage. Not yours. Yours is… ancient.” I let the word rest between us.
He exhales, and for a moment his eyes soften. “They’ll come for you. Mateo won’t wait. He’ll send men. If you stay here, you’re in danger.”
I nod, but slowly. “I know. But the danger isn’t enough reason to leave. Not when something worth risking sits here between us now.”
He looks away, jaw working. In the silence I hear distant cawing of a bird beyond the courtyard, wind stirring broken shutters, the steady drip of water from some hidden pipe. Night recedes in slow folds. Dawn tints the broken glass in the windows pink and gray. The villa seems to awaken with us, sluggish but alive.
“Don’t pretend you understand me,” he says, voice harsh again, but the edge is duller.
“I’m not pretending,” I say. “I’m trying.” I reach out, uncertain at first, and rest my fingertips on his forearm. The contact is light and electric. My skin pulses as though it recognizes something under his, something alive and stilluntamed. Heat spreads in me. Not fear. Not hesitation. Something like permission.
He meets my touch with a flicker in his eyes, and I see something unguarded there just for an instant. Then he breathes out and his jaw loosens. But he doesn’t draw away. The silence that follows is not empty. It’s heavy and gentle at once.
“I didn’t expect you not to run,” he says, voice quiet, almost a question.
I smile softly. “I didn’t expect to find someone who’d see me instead of turning away.”
He stares at me as though I’ve become a sun he hasn’t seen in years. The moment stretches. I feel the floor underneath shifting, old foundations settling. Somewhere far off, a branch taps a window. The air tastes of dust and possibility.
Later, I dream.
I lie in darkness, the memories of us entwined. The villa transforms around me. I’m walking through corridors of light and charred stone. The walls pulse with color—reds like blood, golds like dawn. In my hands I hold a flame, a small flame at first, flickering. It spreads. I walk and the flame trails behind me, painting the air. The walls respond, glowing where the flame touches them, shifting and twisting.
