Her voice is raw, shredded by the intense pace. “I’m yours! Always yours!”
I pour every ounce of my desperation, my rage, and my love into her until my body seizes, exploding inside her with a shout that shakes the tile walls.
I collapse against her, my chest heaving, my body heavy and slick. I don't move, holding her tight, pinning her to the wall.
I love her the way a man loves something he never thought he could have. The way a sinner loves the first breath of absolution.
I lean down, pull her dress back down her body, take her hand and lead her out of the warehouse without another word.
Chapter 27
Iwake to warmth.
A strong arm wrapped around my waist. A steady heartbeat pressed against my back.
The scent of cedar and smoke and something wholly Alessandro filling my lungs.
He didn’t leave.
For the first time since the accident… he didn’t leave at dawn.
I turn my head just enough to see the outline of his face, peaceful in sleep. There’s no tension between his eyebrows. His jaw isn’t clenched. His breathing is slow, steady.
My heart squeezes.
He said he loved me last night. In three languages. And he stayed.
When he finally stirs awake, he presses a kiss to the top of my head before rolling out of bed with a soft curse, stretching, and muttering something about needing coffee.
I follow him downstairs a few minutes later—and freeze in the doorway.
Rocco is standing in the kitchen.
He’s leaning against the counter, sling still on his arm, looking entirely too pale to be back at work. But he smiles when he sees me.
A real smile.
Soft. Familiar now.
“Hey, El,” he says, pushing off the counter with his good arm. “Just wanted to stop by. Make sure you’re okay.”
Before I can say anything, Alessandro brushes past me, murmurs something about taking a call, and disappears into his office with his phone pressed to his ear.
I turn back to Rocco. “You should be resting,” I scold gently, nodding toward his sling. “I’m fine. I should be asking you that.”
He shrugs, smirking. “Ladies love fussing over me. I'm milking it while I can.”
I laugh, shaking my head. His humor warms something in my chest—it feels good to laugh after everything.
But the moment Alessandro steps back into the kitchen, the temperature shifts.
His face is grim. Hard. Eyes sharp in a way that makes the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
“Alessandro?” I ask softly. “What’s wrong?”
Rocco straightens immediately, all traces of teasing gone.
His stance shifts—protective, alert, command-ready.
