I stop, but we both know how that sentence ends. Until Luca destroyed my clinic and ripped away the one thing I’d built that made me feel like I had control over something.
Is it just me or does Luca look…ashamed? It’s hard to tell in the low light as I blink away tears.
“We’re both just trying to fix what we couldn’t save,” Luca observes quietly. “You with animals, me with revenge. Both of us running from grief instead of processing it.”
The parallel is uncomfortable but accurate. “I guess we are,” I murmur.
Luca doesn’t say a word after that, and I don’t bother saying anything either. The air is heavy with shared understanding and the new recognition that we’re both products of profound loss that shaped us in ways we’re only now beginning to understand.
Luca pushes away from the desk again, and suddenly he’s much closer—close enough that I can smell his soap mixed with the faint scent of whiskey and can feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Giuliana,” he says, my name coming out rough and I fight the urge to shiver. “I need you to understand something.”
“What?” My voice is barely a whisper.
He doesn’t answer immediately, just stares at me, like he’s trying to hold something back. There’s a tightening around his eyes, the kind that comes with guilt. Or maybe it’s shame. His lips press into a thin, bloodless line, then part slightly, as if a word is about to escape but it doesn’t. Instead, he swallows hard, his throat working like the truth might choke him if he lets it out.
“Three years,” he finally says, his voice gravely. “Three years I’ve been planning this. And now—” He stops, running a hand through his messy hair in a gesture that speaks of frustration more than anything else. “Now nothing is going the way it was fucking supposed to.”
My breath catches. It’s not an apology. God, it’s not evencloseto an apology. But there’s something in his voice, in the way his shoulders stay rigid, like he’s bracing for impact. The tension rolling off him isn’t anger. It’s something messier. Like he’s wrestling with a situation that’s spiraled beyond his control.
At the center of that mess is me.
“What does that mean?” I press, my heart hammering.
He looks at me for a long moment, and I see the exhaustion there, and confusion, and what looks like guilt. His hand lifts slightly, like he’s going to reach for me, but then he curls his fingers into his palm and drops it back to his side.
“It means—” He stops again, clearly struggling with whatever he’s trying to say. He exhales a long breath before something that looks like finality crosses his face. “It means this.”
He closes the distance between us, his hand coming up to cup my face with surprising gentleness. His thumb traces my cheekbone, the touch reverent in a way that makes me gasp.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, his dark eyes searching mine. “Tell me this is wrong, that you hate me, that you don’t want?—”
I silence him by rising on my toes and pressing my lips to his.
This kiss is different from the desperate claiming in the car. There’s no rage or possessiveness, no need to mark territoryor establish dominance. This is tentative, exploratory, almost hesitant—like we’re both afraid of what this means.
His other hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head as he deepens the kiss. I can feel him holding back, restraining the force I know he’s capable of, choosing gentleness when he could choose control.
It’s the gentleness that undoes me.
My hands find the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as I pull him closer. The robe I’m wearing is suddenly too much barrier between us, and when Luca’s hands slide down to the tie at my waist, I don’t stop him.
The robe falls open, and his sharp intake of breath reminds me I’m wearing nothing but a silk nightgown underneath, thin enough that it leaves little to imagination.
“Giuliana—” His voice is strained. “If we do this, if we—I need you to be sure. I need you to know this isn’t?—”
“Isn’t what?” I look up at him, seeing conflict written in every line of his beautiful face. “Isn’t rape? Isn’t coercion? Isn’t you forcing yourself on your captive?”
“Yes.” The words come out rough.
“Then it’s not.” I reach up to trace the line of his jaw, feeling stubble rough under my fingertips. “I want this. I want you. Not because I’m scared or because I need protection. I want you because?—”
I stop, surprised by the realization crystallizing in my mind. “Because right now, in this moment, you’re the only person in the world who understands what it’s like to be shaped by lossso profound it changes who you are. And I…” My voice breaks. “And I’m tired of being alone with that.”
His expression cracks completely and he closes his eyes, as if my words physically pain him. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Giuliana?—”
Then his mouth is on mine again, but this time there’s no hesitation. His hands slide down my sides, over the silk nightgown, tracing the curves of my body with a touch that makes me shiver. When he lifts me onto the edge of his desk, papers and photographs scattering, I don’t protest. I just wrap my legs around his hips and pull him closer.
