“Not here,” he murmurs against my lips. “Not on the desk surrounded by case files and death. You deserve?—”
“I don’t care where.” I cut him off, my hands already working at the buttons of his shirt. “I just need—I need this to bereal.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes intense. “It is real,” he says quietly. “Whatever else is happening, whatever complicated mess we’re in—this is real, Giuliana. I need you to know that.”
The confession should terrify me and remind me that I’m developing feelings for my fucking captor. Falling for Luca Marchetti is the worst possible thing I could do.
But I’m so tired of fighting. I’m so tired of being alone with my fear and my guilt and the terrible weight of secrets I can’t share. Right now, at this moment, Luca isn’t my captor. He’s just a man shaped by grief, trying to find his way back to something resembling human.
Just like me.
“Then show me,” I whisper. “Show me it’s real.”
He lifts me off the desk in one smooth motion, and I wrap my arms around his neck as he carries me through a door I hadn’t noticed—leading to what must be a private bedroom attached to his study. The room beyond is dimly lit, dominated by a massive bed that looks like it’s never been used for anything but sleep.
Luca sets me down carefully then steps back to finish unbuttoning his shirt. I watch as he strips off the fabric, revealing the body I’ve felt against mine but never fully seen. My mouth dries. Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that speak of dedicated gym time and there’s that tattoo that I had spotted earlier.
It starts at his collarbone and continues down across his chest. It looks like it might be a family crest. But there’s another one too, wrapped around his left bicep. It’s a simple design that looks almost crude compared to the elaborate chest piece, like it was done by an amateur or in someone’s basement. It takes me a moment to realize it matches the one in the photograph on his desk, the teenage Luca and Marco showing off matching ink with cocky grins.
But it’s the scars that catch my attention—evidence of a violent life written across his skin in thin white lines and puckered marks.
“See something you like?” His voice carries a hint of amusement.
“I see someone who’s survived things that should have destroyed him,” I respond honestly. “Just like me.”
The amusement fades, replaced by something more intense. He closes the distance between us, his hands finding the hem of my nightgown and lifting it slowly, giving me time to protest if I want to.
I don’t.
The silk slides over my head, then I’m standing before him in nothing but my underwear and the vulnerability I’ve been trying to hide since this nightmare began. His eyes roam over me with an intensity that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and cherished.
“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly. My body warms at the compliment. “I’ve thought so since I first saw you at that warehouse, terrified but still standing between me and your father like you could actually stop me.”
“I was an idiot that night,” I admit.
“You were brave.” His hands span my waist, pulling me against him. “Recklessly, impossibly brave. And I wanted to hate you for it, to dismiss you as just another part in my revenge. But even then—” He stops, his forehead resting against mine. “Even then, I knew you were going to complicate everything.”
“Sorry,” I murmur, not sorry at all.
His lips quirk in a half smile. “Don’t be.”
Then we’re moving together, falling onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and desperate touches. But this time, there’s no urgency, no race to claim or possess. Luca maps my body with careful attention, his mouth following the path his hands trace, finding sensitive places that make me gasp and arch against him.
When I reach for him, trying to speed things up, he catches my wrists gently. “Slow,” he murmurs against my throat. “Let me—I want to do this right.”
“This isn’t a performance,” I protest, desperate to feel him.
“No,” he agrees. His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. “It’s not. It’s—” He stops, seeming to struggle for words. “It’s me trying to show you that you’re more than my plan for revenge. You’re…”
“What?” I press, needing to hear him say it.
“Everything I shouldn’t want but can’t stop wanting anyway.”
The confession breaks some final defense I’d been clinging to, some last barrier between us. My hands slide up his back, feeling the planes of muscle under skin, and I pull him down into a kiss. Unable to help myself, I arch into him, desperate to leave no surface untouched as I wrap my legs around his waist. Weaving my fingers into his dark hair, I tug him closer.
A low growl sounds from deep within him. “Giuliana,” he warns against my mouth.
“What?”
