He lets out a moan. Slams into me once, twice…then spills inside me, hips jerking, breath breaking, the sound of my name ripped from his mouth like a prayer and a curse all at once.
We collapse. Still joined. Still breathless. Still burning. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just lowers us to the mattress like the storm hasn’t already destroyed everything in its path.
I’m wrecked. Bruised. Claimed. And I’ve never felt more whole.
This morning feels wrong.Too quiet. The storm’s gone, but the air still smells like rain and something heavier I can’t name.
I’m at the long dining table in a gray tank top and gray pants, hair pulled into a low knot that’s barely holding together. Duchess is asleep on one of the chairs, a small ball of fur against the velvet. My coffee has gone cold, and I’ve been stirring it for ten minutes anyway.
The sound of footsteps makes me glance up. Nicolo appears in the doorway, crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, tie loose around his neck. He looks like nothing happened. Like he didn’t touch me. Like he didn’t break me open and put me back together all in the same night. As if he didn’t watch me leave his room right before the crack of dawn.
He doesn’t speak right away. He just crosses the room, every movement deliberate. I swear the room gets smaller when he’s in it.
“Morning,” I say, trying to be casual. My voice ends somewhere between hoarse and guilty.
He nods once and takes his seat at the head of the table, pouring himself coffee—black, no sugar. The clink of the spoon is too loud. The seconds stretch thin.
“You didn’t sleep,” he finally says, eyes still on his cup.
“Neither did you,” I answer before I can stop myself.
His gaze lifts to mine. Slow. Unreadable.
“No,” he says after a beat. “I didn’t.”
Something unspoken presses between us. It’s not shame exactly, but the awareness of what’s changed. Of what can’t be undone.
Duchess jumps off the chair and disappears under the table. Lucky she can hide.
I take a sip of my coffee just to have something to do. It’s cold, bitter, useless. I don’t even like coffee.
He sets his cup down. “Wear the pink dress tonight.”
I blink. “What?”
“Seven p.m.,” he says like it’s an order, not a question. “Be ready.”
“For what?”
“Dinner.”
“With you?”
Don’t get your hopes up, Mara.
He gives me a look that saysdon’t start.
“No, with the king.” He shakes his head before muttering, “Just wait. You’ll see.”
I want to ask why. Why he’s pretending last night didn’t happen. Why he’s suddenly dragging me to dinner. But his tone leaves no room for questions, so I just nod, the smallest movement.
“Fine.”
He stands. The chair scrapes softly against the floor.
“Seven,” he repeats.
And then he’s gone, leaving only the scent of his cologne and the faint echo of my hope for something more.
