The ceiling above me isn’t familiar. The light is dim, filtered through heavy curtains. My throat feels like sandpaper, and every part of my body aches, sharp in some places, dull in others.
Movement catches my eye. Rosa sits beside the bed, her hands folded tightly in her lap as she stares out the window.Why does she look so stressed, I wonder. When she realizes I’m awake, she lets out a small gasp and jumps to her feet.
“Oh, my heavens,” she says, voice trembling with relief. “You had us very worried.”
“What happened?” My voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.
“Your wound got infected.” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes soft with lingering worry. “You were delirious with fever for days. Mr. Conti was very worried. We all were.” She stands. “I’ll get him. He’ll want to know you’re awake.”
She leaves, but all I can think about is what she said.
Mr. Conti.
The name lands heavy, sinking through me like a stone dropped into deep water. It feels too formal and too distant for a man whose hands I remember steady on my skin, anchoring me to the world when everything inside me was unraveling.
I blink, trying to pull the pieces together. The memories come slow and thick, slipping in at strange angles.
I remember heat—blistering, suffocating heat.
The way the bedding stuck to my skin.
The ceiling tilting and melting at the edges.
Shadows crawling across the walls.
I remember my breath catching, the room spinning, the sharp punch of pain in my side before everything went black.
And then?—
Him.
The only steady thing in the storm.
I remember calling out for him, voice hoarse, reaching for something I wasn’t even fully conscious of. I remember cool hands against my burning skin, grounding me. Hearing low words I couldn’t understand but clung to anyway.
My dreams had been dark and twisted, a maze of fear and burning fever.
But he was always there. Pulling me back. Holding me together. Keeping me tethered to a world I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in.
I glance around, suddenly aware of the rich scent in the air — leather, smoke, and something distinctlyhim.The bed beneath me is too large, the sheets too soft. My pulse skips.
Am I in his room?
I don’t have time to process the thought because the door bursts open.
And there he is.
Lorenzo fills the doorway like a force of nature. He’s unshaven with shadows beneath his eyes, his white shirt sleevesrolled to his forearms. The look on his face steals the air from my lungs.
“Thank God,” he breathes, the words rough and unguarded.
I try to sit up, but the movement sends pain shooting through my side. He’s there in an instant, crossing the room with that quiet urgency that always makes people move out of his way.
“Don’t try to move,cara,” he murmurs, one hand hovering near my shoulder but not quite touching. “You need to save your strength.”
Honestly, I’ve already come to that conclusion myself.
“How long have I been out?” I manage.
