Three sharp knocks interrupt my thoughts.
"One second!" I call out, scrambling for the robe hanging on the door hook. The silk barely covers my thighs, but it's better than a towel.
The door opens anyway.
Lorenzo fills the doorframe, and for a heartbeat, his eyes drop to my bare legs before snapping back to my face.
"You could wait for permission." The words come out breathier than intended.
"My house." But there's no real authority in it. He looks... uncomfortable. One hand grips the doorframe like it's keeping him anchored. "Dinner's in twenty minutes. Downstairs."
"I'll eat up here."
"No." He steps inside, closing the door behind him. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller. "You'll eat with the family."
"Your brother pointed a gun at my face. Your other brother wants me dead. I'm not exactly welcome at the family table."
"You're under my protection." His voice drops, that dangerous edge creeping in. "That makes you welcome enough."
Water drips from my hair onto my shoulders, trailing down beneath the silk. His eyes follow one droplet before he looks away, focusing on a point over my shoulder.
"They hate me."
"They hate your last name. There's a difference."
"Is there?" I move closer, watching him tense. "Because to me it feels pretty personal."
He doesn't step back, but his whole body goes rigid. Like he's fighting something. Fighting himself.
"There's nothing wrong with eating at a table instead of hiding in a bedroom." His voice is rougher now. "You don't have to talk. Just... be there."
Another step closer. The space between us shrinks to inches.
"Why do you care where I eat?"
His eyes finally meet mine, and the heat there steals my breath. "I don't."
Liar.
"Thank you." I reach out, my fingers barely grazing his arm. "For the training. For letting me stay. For?—"
He jerks back like I've burned him.
"Twenty minutes." The words come out strangled. He clears his throat, tries again. "Don't be late."
But he doesn't move. Just stands there, hands clenched at his sides, looking at me like I'm something he wants but can't have.
I'm not stupid. I see the way his eyes linger on me. Feel the tension that crackles between us whenever we're in thesame room. He wants me. Maybe not the way I want him—with this desperate, consuming need that makes me feel insane—but there's something there.
Or maybe I just need to believe that. Need to think I have some power here, some control in him.
"Lorenzo—"
"I need to—" He stops, swallows hard. His hand reaches for the doorknob, misses, tries again. "I have things to handle before dinner."
The composed, controlled man from this morning is gone.
"Eighteen minutes now." He finally gets the door open, practically stumbling into the hallway. "Don't make me come get you."
