“Stay.”
The word is quiet. Non-negotiable.
“You need rest,” he continues. “You’re not taking one more step tonight.”
Something in my chest twists.
Part of me bristles at the command. At the assumption.
Another part—smaller, traitorous—melts a little.
“I’m not tired,” I say.
It’s not a lie. My heart is in tatters, but my body is awake again now, shot through by something that’s not quite adrenaline, but not quite anything else I’ve ever felt either.
I just know it wouldn’t let me sleep.
But Giovanni gives me a skeptical once-over. “I doubt that.”
“I can decide my bedtime on my own, thank you very much.”
“Can you?” He prowls a little closer. “You strike me as the kind of person who’s had to decide everything her whole life. Maybe it’s high time someone relieved you of that burden.”
I sit back down, heart thudding. Because no one has ever read through me like this. “Who are you?” I ask.
It’s not his name I’m after. I already know that.
I want to know how someone can be like this. So controlled. So dangerous. So unexpectedly gentle. How he can wrap all of that in a layer of bluntness and authority and still feel safe.
He studies me for a long moment. Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth curves. “Would you like to find out?” he asks.
The air between us tightens.
I know what he’s offering. Or asking. Or daring me to do.
I shouldn’t.
I’m exhausted. Raw. Still shaking under the surface. This is not the state you make decisions in.
But I also don’t want to think anymore.
I don’t want to be careful. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts and the image of red paint on white walls.
I meet his gaze.
“Yes,” I say.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Giovanni crosses the distance between us in two steps and cups my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheeks like he’s memorizing the shape of them
Then his mouth is on mine.
I gasp softly and cling to his shirt, the world narrowing down to heat and breath and the steady pressure of his hands.
For the first time all night, the dark recedes.
And I let it.
