“Three days.”
Three days. My stomach twists. That explains the dryness in my throat, the fog in my head.
“May I have some water?”
“Of course.” His tone softens, almost tender.
He reaches for the glass on the nightstand, pours fresh water from a crystal carafe, and turns back to me. I expect him to hand it over. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed and holds the glass to my lips.
“Slowly,” he murmurs.
The rim of the glass is cool against my mouth. I take small sips, each one easing the burn in my throat. His hand is steady, his gaze unwavering.
“Better?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out small. “Thank you.”
He nods, setting the glass aside. His mouth opens like he wants to say more, but nothing comes out.
I look away, needing distance, but the sight that meets me makes my pulse spike all over again.
There’s a chair near the bed. A heavy leather one that wasn’t there before. A blanket, wrinkled and thrown over the back, anda half-empty glass of whiskey on the table beside it. Someone’s been sleeping there.
In the corner, I spot the nightshirt I wore days ago, folded neatly on a chair. My skin prickles. I’m clean now. Fresh bandages. Fresh clothes.
Did he…?
When I look back at him, the exhaustion in his face tells me everything without a single word spoken.
His beard is darker, rougher—more shadow than grooming, like he hasn’t bothered to shave in days. The sharp lines of his jaw look harsher for it. His eyes… God, his eyes. They’re hollowed from lack of sleep, bruised at the edges, the kind of tired that doesn’t come from one bad night but from carrying too much for too long.
He looks like a man who’s been fighting sleep, fighting grief, and mostly fighting himself. A man who hasn’t left my side since the fever took me under. A man who’s breaking quietly, privately, in the spaces no one else sees.
And when his gaze finally meets mine, it hits me how much of that breaking was because of me.
“I was very worried about you,” he says quietly, as if sensing my thoughts.
The words land heavier than they should. There’s something too raw in his tone to be just concern.
I don’t know what to say to that. So I don’t.
Instead, I turn my gaze to the window, to the pale light seeping through the curtains. Outside, the city hums quietly, unaware that my world keeps folding itself around this man.
He exhales slowly, then reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. His touch is careful, almost reverent.
“Rest,” he says softly. “You’re safe.”
I want to believe him. God, I do. But the longer I look at him—the man who carries violence in his veins like oxygen—the more I wonder whatsafereally means anymore.
Moonlight filters through the curtains when I wake again. The penthouse is quiet. For a moment I think I’m alone, but then I catch the faint scrape of a chair and the whisper of fabric.
He’s still here.
Lorenzo sits in the corner, half-shadowed, a book closed on his lap. His tie is gone, his shirt undone at the throat. When our eyes meet, something flickers in his. Relief, maybe, or something heavier.
“You should be asleep,” he murmurs.
“So should you.” My voice is faint but steadier than before.
