The fear didn’t create the want.
The fear just made me ashamed of it.
I sit up. Heart pounding for no reason. Or every reason.
No more games,I told him once. But I’ve been playing the biggest game of all. Saying no when I meant yes. Pushing him away while pulling him closer. Letting him touch me, taste me, make me come, and then hating myself for wanting more.
I’m tired. So fucking tired of fighting something that’s already won.
My feet hit the floor, the stone is cool under my bare soles. I’m wearing one of his silk nightgowns, cream-colored and thin, the kind of thing designed to be taken off. I should change. Should put on something that doesn’t make me feel naked.
I don’t.
The door glides open, and I step into the hallway.
A guard stands at the end of the corridor. Different from the ones who used to watch me like a prisoner. This one straightens when he sees me but doesn’t move to block my path.
“Where is he?” The question comes out steadier than I feel.
The guard studies me. His eyes move to the nightgown, back to my face. Whatever conclusion he reaches, he keeps it to himself. Then he turns and walks.
I follow.
We move through corridors I’ve never explored. Deeper into the fortress. The architecture changes as we go. Less ornate, more lived-in. His part of the house.
My pulse drums in my throat. Each step feels like a door is closing behind me. Like I’m walking toward something I can’t take back.
Last chance, Murphy. You can still turn around.
But my feet keep moving.
The guard stops in front of a heavy wooden door. Dark oak, carved with patterns I can’t make out in the dim light. He nods once toward the door, and then he’s gone. Footsteps retreating down the corridor until the silence swallows him whole.
Just me and the door.
Just me and him.
My hand lifts and hovers against the wood.
What if he’s asleep? What if he doesn’t want?—
Since when has Elio Marchetti not wanted you?
I knock.
Three heartbeats. Four. The silence stretches so long I almost convince myself he’s not there, that I’ve made a mistake, that I should go back, that this was?—
The door opens.
Elio.
Barefoot. Shirt unbuttoned, hanging loose over dark trousers. Hair disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it. His eyes widen for a beat before the mask slides back into place.
“Violet.” His voice is rough., sleep-edged. “What’s wrong? Are you?—”
I push past him.
Into his room. His space. The one place he’s not shown me before.
