I stare at the ceiling until the stillness starts to suffocate me. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
With trembling fingers, I push the heavy bedding back. The blanket smells faintly like him and that alone almost makes me stop. But I don’t.
I can’t.
The weight of the sheets drags at my limbs, and by the time I manage to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my chest is heaving like I’ve run a mile. Every movement tugs at my side, each breath sending a dull, throbbing ache through my ribs.
“Come on,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this.”
The floor feels cool against my bare feet, grounding me. I press my palm to the nightstand, using it to steady myself as I rise. My knees wobble, my vision blurs for a heartbeat, and I have to pause to catch my breath. The world tilts slightly, and I grip the edge of the table until it steadies. Sweat beads at my temple. My heart pounds too fast, too loud.
But I’m standing, even if I feel like a newborn deer.
The effort leaves me trembling, but it also sparks something fierce and fragile inside me. I’ve been shot twice, nearly died, and yet I’m still here. Still moving.
I take one slow step toward the door. Then another. The sound of my breathing fills the quiet room, harsh and uneven.
I don’t know where I’m going. Maybe to my old room, maybe just away from this one. Away from his scent, his shadow, his presence that clings to every inch of this space.
But when my hand closes around the doorknob, I have to stop again, bending slightly, my vision swimming. The ache in my side pulses deep and angry.
Of course that’s when Lorenzo decides to walk back in.
“What in the hell are you doing?” His voice is low but sharp, the kind of tone that makes even the air hold still.
I barely have time to look up before he’s there, his hands gripping my arms to steady me. My legs buckle, and I sink against him, my forehead brushing his chest. His heartbeat is steady. Mine isn’t.
“Just going for a walk,” I manage, my voice weak and breathless.
He mutters something in Italian under his breath and in one swift motion, he scoops me into his arms. I make a sound of protest because I weigh too much, but that dies halfway out of my throat.
He carries me straight to the bed, moving with a kind of practiced ease that says he’s done this before. That he’s carried people who couldn’t stand on their own. Only this time, it’s not business. It’s me.
He sets me down carefully on the mattress, tucking the blanket around me before I can object.
“You could’ve taken me to the guest room,” I murmur as he smooths the edge of the blanket around me.
“Icould,” he agrees easily, without hesitation. “But I didn’t. It’s easier to take care of you in here where I know where things are.”
His tone is practical, almost casual, but the words land with unexpected weight.
Something heavy settles in my chest, something sharp-edged that feels almost like shame… but not quite. More like the ache of wanting something I shouldn’t want. Of assuming meaning where maybe there isn’t any.
Is that why he’s kept me in his room all along? Because it’s convenient? Because it’s efficient? Because I’m easier to manage when I’m right where he wants me?
The thought shouldn’t sting.
It shouldn’t.
But it does because a small, traitorous part of me had hoped it was more than convenience. That keeping me close meant something to him. That it wasn’t just about practicality or control or proximity.
I swallow hard, forcing the feeling down before it shows on my face.
Because I have no right to want more from a man like him. And yet I do. Stupidly so.
“When do you think I can go back to the guest room?” I ask softly.
He pauses, studying me. “In a hurry to get away from me?”
