Page 44 of The Cost of Silence

He bites back a laugh. “I’ll make you some lunch, and this time you’ll finish it,” he says, getting up and crossing to the fridge. “That’s an order.”

“You really enjoy giving those, don’t you?”

His gaze slides over me before he smirks. “Only when you argue,” he says. “Which is always.”

I roll my eyes.

He gives this sexy half smile that makes me want to squeeze my thighs together. God, this man is potent.

“Let me feed you, Belle.”

And something warm slips into the space between us.

Something that feels like the start of whatever comes next.

Something that could burn just as easily as it could save.

13.Nico

I knowshe’s awake long before she steps out of her room. I hear the soft shuffle of her moving, the careful shift of her weight on the floorboards, the muted curse under her breath when her ribs pull too tight. I stayed in my office most of the morning, door cracked open, pretending I wasn’t listening for her.

Pretending I’m not becoming the kind of man who counts her footsteps. After I showed her the clothes I’d bought for her and made her lunch, I’d retreated to my office and closed the door. She’s temptation wrapped in a soft cloak and I needed to get myself together. Throwing myself into my uncle’s betrayal was the perfect reminder of why I can’t let anyone but my brothers close.

It took the sound of her shower running to break that resurrected control to dust.

I shouldn’t be this aware of her.

And yet, I am.

Rossi comes by, silent as a ghost, slipping a tablet onto my desk. “Perimeter is clear. Extra cameras are live. The feeds are triple-encrypted.”

“Good.” My voice comes out lower than I intend. “Anything suspicious?”

“Not yet.” A pause. “But, Nico… she needs you calm. You tense, she’ll feel it.”

I shoot him a look. He doesn’t flinch. “Am I that obvious?”

“You’re obvious to anyone who knows you.” Rossi gives a respectful nod, the closest thing the man has to affection, then disappears down the hall.

I don’t get the chance to analyze that comment because I hear her door open.

And she steps out.

Slowly. Carefully. Wearing one of the soft long-sleeve tops I bought her, slate blue, hugging her curves gently, dipping along her collarbone in a way that should be illegal.

She looks delicate. But not fragile. Just… breakable in a way that makes my chest tighten.

She spots me leaning against the doorway of my office and her steps falter just a fraction, as if she’s bracing to see how I’ll act this morning.

I straighten.

“Hi,” she says quietly. Her voice is rough from sleep, softer than usual. “Um… I hope it’s okay that I wore this.”

Her fingertips brush the hem of the shirt. She doesn’t realize her small gestures gut me more than anything she says. Her face looks worse than ever, the bruises turning an awful green-yellow as she heals. But she’s still stunningly beautiful in a way that’s timeless.

“It’s more than okay,” I say, too fast, too honest. I clear my throat. “It suits you.”

Color rises in her cheeks.