I don’t say anything else. Just, “Okay.” That’s all he needs.
My brother has a temper, but keeps everything so bottled up. I’m scared for the day he won’t be able to hold it in anymore.
He gives a final nod, the unspoken weight still hanging on to him as he turns and disappears through the arc of my bathroom and then the door of my bedroom.
Only after I hear the door click do I strip down from my clothes and start undoing my loose braid, steam curling uparound the marble and glass. My muscles unclench. My spine loosens. But I can’t stop the image that forms—uninvited.
Elijah Romano.
My brother’s best friend.
My new shadow.
The boy I was never supposed to want.
Chapter 2
Aurelia
The sting of hot water drips down my back, my dark hair falling down the length, ending in the dip above my hips. I tilt back further, letting the water run down my forehead, around my eyes, and along my neck, then I picture him as I always do when he’s not around—tall, broad, terrifyingly still.
Arms inked from shoulder to wrist with scars layered underneath the tattoos. My brother’s best friend moves with pride, a soldier even when he’s not trying to. He’s constantly measuring exits, clocking threats, anticipating every possible failure in the room.
Before he joined my father’s circle, Elijah worked for the government. High-level protective services at the early age of seventeen. I remember Enzo whispering about it once—how Elijah had stood in front of bullets more than once, how he’d broken a man’s spine in three places to protect a diplomat’s child.
He’s always been the type to die for the job.
I think that’s why my father accepted him.
Why he trusted him.
Why he gave him to Enzo and stupidly left my life in his hands.
The irony doesn’t escape me. Enzo warning me to stay away from Elijah when we both know he’s never wanted me, not the way I craved him.
And still…
When the water runs over my skin and fogs the mirrors, I imagine him on his knees.
Not in obedience. Not in defeat.
For me.
Elijah Romano—the man who never bends or breaks—bending only for me. Betraying every oath he swore, every order he’s ever followed, just to give me something. Anything.
I don’t love him.
I can’t, not after the position he put me in. For every second he’s stolen from me.
And still—God help me—I imagine it.
I imagine him leaning in close, voice low and raw with the weight of years we’ve both ignored. His hands on my hips with reverence. His mouth ghosting over mine with heat.
A kiss that would burn.
A touch that would leave bruises not from harm, but from hunger.
I imagine the way his body would pin mine to the cold tile, wet and fevered from the steam still clinging to the walls. How his breath would shake as he finally gives in—heat and sweat, muscle and restraint, the glass behind me shattered by need.
