He says, “You can’t text them. Not until this is finished.”
“Will it be finished?” I ask, my gaze meeting his.
The question hangs in the air between us, fragile as glass.
Lorenzo looks into the fire for a long time before he answers. “It never really is.”
The flickering light paints his face in gold and shadow. He looks older tonight. “You can stop the bleeding,” he continues quietly, “but the wound? That stays. You just learn to live around it.”
“That’s the second time you’ve said that,” I whisper.
He glances at me then, eyes dark and steady. “Because it’s true.”
“I don’t think I know how to do that yet.”
“You will,” he says. “You’re stronger than you think.”
The words catch me off guard. No one’s ever said that to me and meant it.
“Maybe,” I murmur. “But I’d trade all the strength in the world to undo what happened.”
He exhales, long and quiet. “So would I.”
The fire crackles, a log shifting in the hearth. I glance at him again, at the way the light glows against his tattoos. I shouldn’t be looking, but I can’t stop. There’s something heartbreakingly human about him right now—this man who commands a room with a single word, sitting in silence, stripped of all his armor.
He catches me looking, and for a heartbeat neither of us looks away. The air thickens.
Then, softly, he breaks the spell. “Elizabeth.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t text anyone,” he says, the authority slipping back into his voice. “You don’t call. You don’t leave this house until I say it’s safe.”
My pulse stutters. “And if I don’t agree to that?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Then I’ll keep you here anyway.”
There’s no threat in his tone, just certainty. The kind that comes from a man who’s used to being obeyed.
I swallow hard. “You can’t control everything, Lorenzo.”
He gives the faintest, hollow smile. “I can try.”
I set my glass down, forcing myself to stand. “Goodnight.”
“Wait.”
The word lands soft but heavy, stopping me mid-step. I turn and find him looking up at me.
“Will you stay with me a bit longer?” he asks, voice low, roughened by exhaustion and something else I can’t name.
He pats the spot beside him.
My lips part. Does he want me to sit that close? The thought makes my pulse flutter, but there’s something in his eyes—loneliness, not lust—that breaks my hesitation. Slowly, I lower myself onto the couch beside him.
The leather sighs under our weight. A beat passes, and then his arm moves, resting lightly along the back of the couch before sliding around my shoulders. The warmth of him seeps through my thin nightshirt, solid and grounding.
He pulls me closer, carefully, as if afraid I’ll bolt. I don’t. I can’t. My head finds his shoulder like it belongs there. The steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of whiskey and smoke… it’s all strangely comforting.
