We move together slowly, like we’re learning each other for the first time. Each piece of clothing falls away—her sweater, her bra, the loose pants, my shirt—until there’s nothing left between us but skin, fevered and flushed, and the rush of wanting that is more than hunger. My mouth finds her throat, her collarbone, the soft valley between her breasts.
I worship her with lips and hands, tracing every scar, every shiver, until her head falls back and her breath stutters.
She clings to me, nails raking down my back, hips rising to meet me as I settle between her thighs. Her legs wrap around me, urging me closer, deeper, until there’s no space for fear. Our bodies fit together as if built for ruin and repair in the same breath. I hold her gaze, not letting her look away.
“Isabella,” I murmur, voice breaking, “tell me what you want.”
Her answer is a moan, desperate and sweet. “I want you. I want all of you, now.”
My cock throbs as I sink into her slowly, the world narrowing to the way she gasps my name, to the heat of her body, to the wet, shivering welcome that makes me shudder with restraint. We move together in a rhythm that is all forgiveness and fire—her hips rising to meet each thrust, herhands threading through my hair, her lips finding mine again and again.
She arches beneath me, legs tightening, her cries muffled against my throat as I thrust deeper, harder, losing myself in the pleasure of her surrender. It’s not domination. It’s devotion. I want her to know what she is to me: savior, confessor, the only thing that’s ever felt like home.
“God, Emil,” she gasps, voice shaking with need, “fuck.”
I groan her name, the sound ripped from somewhere raw and sacred. I slow, letting her ride out the crest, every movement a collision of pain and love, breaking and mending with each breath.
Her body convulses around me, pulsing heat and wetness, and the sight undoes me. I spill into her, clutching her tight, buried so deep I never want to leave.
For a long, trembling moment, there is only the sound of our breathing, tangled hearts trying to find a new rhythm. I hold her through the aftershocks, my lips pressed to her hair, her skin, her open mouth.
Afterward, we lie together in the hush of the dimly lit room, bodies tangled, sweat cooling on our skin. Her fingers drift over my chest, tracing the ragged scar that runs just above my heart. She doesn’t ask how I got it. Instead, she leans in, lips brushing the mark as if sealing a promise.
“I love you,” she whispers, barely audible, but the words strike me harder than any bullet. I feel them everywhere—carving through years of anger, fear, and guilt—leaving me open, raw, and weightless.
I pull her closer, burying my face in her hair, arms locking around her like a vow. My mouth finds her temple, and I press a lingering kiss there, my voice hoarse and broken.
“You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” I whisper. It’s half warning, half confession. “You’ve ruined me, Isabella. I’ll never be the same.”
She laughs quietly, a watery, exhausted sound, and I can feel her smiling against my chest. For the first time in my life, peace settles over me. Real, terrifying peace. It’s like standing on a ledge and realizing you’d rather fall than ever let go.
As she drifts to sleep in my arms, her breath slowing, her body soft and trusting against mine, I stare at the ceiling, awake in a way I’ve never been before. Revenge, power, blood—all the things I spent my life chasing feel small and hollow now. I don’t want any of it. I just want her.
Always her.
The obsession that once felt like ruin now feels like redemption, and I know with bone-deep certainty that I’ll burn the world before letting anyone take her away from me again. The danger, the darkness—it’s all worth it, if it means she’ll stay in my arms, whispering love into the shadows.
I press another kiss to her hair, my grip tightening as if I can shield her from the past and everything yet to come.
I know I don’t deserve her, but tonight, I have her anyway, and that’s enough to make me believe in forgiveness, in hope, in the impossible promise of a future neither of us ever thought we’d find.
Epilogue - Isabella
A year later, the world is almost unrecognizable. Not because the past has faded, but because it has been transformed. The scars linger, written into skin and memory and old newspaper headlines, but life has learned to grow around them.
The city thrums with late summer heat, full of newness and possibility, and I stand in the center of it all, as changed as the world around me.
The gallery hums with gentle conversation, footsteps muffled by thick carpets, the soft glow of lights bringing out gold and vermilion in every frame. The air smells of flowers, old books, and oil paint.
Tonight, the space belongs to me, though I still can’t quite believe it—my name engraved in shining brass beside the newly restored Titian, the painting that nearly vanished in a fire, now brought back to life with months of care, patience, and color.
The restoration is more than a job; it’s proof of survival, of hope. Each brushstroke is a promise to myself and to the past—even what’s ruined can be made beautiful again.
People swirl around me: curators, reporters, old friends, strangers with wine glasses and sharp questions. They talk about art and loss and the city’s changing future. I answer politely, smiling when I must, but my eyes keep drifting across the room, drawn again and again to the shadow at the edge of the crowd.
Emil stands at the back, half leaning against a marble column, as if daring anyone to approach. He’s taller than anyone here, his suit tailored but simple, the lines of his body still hard and vigilant.
Tonight there’s something new in his posture. Something open, almost gentle. He’s holding our baby, bundled in pale blue, head crowned with a shock of dark hair.
