“It was beautiful.” The words slip out before I can stop them. “Heartbreaking.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Einaudi said it’s about life moving forward. About accumulation. Intensity without sentimentality.” He stands abruptly, putting distance between us. “It’s calledExperiencebecause experience isn’t safe or kind or clean.”
Then he leaves.
Just like that. Gone. Like I’d seen something I wasn’t supposed to see.
And maybe I had.
I avoid him for the rest of the afternoon. Stay in my room. Pretend I’m not wondering where he is.
At dinner, I don’t ask where to sit. The fight died somewhere a while back. I don’t know when exactly and I don’t want to look too closely at it.
I go straight to him. His lap. The same as every night now.
I settle against him, and his arm wraps around my waist, hand splaying across my stomach. Warm and secure.
Safe,my traitorous brain whispers.
Which is insane. This is the least safe place I’ve ever been.
But I’m aware of every point of contact anyway. His thighs solid beneath mine. His chest firm against my back. The heat of him seeping through fabric, sinking into skin, into bone.
He feeds me like always. Slow, careful bites. Wine. Bread. Something rich and savory I don’t taste because all I can feel is him.
Exhaustion crashes over me like a wave. Not just physical, though that’s there too, but something deeper, bone-weary from fighting myself all day.
Without thinking, I let my head fall back against his shoulder.
His hand tightens on my waist as his breathing stops.
Neither of us moves.
The moment stretches, infinite and terrifying, and I realize what I’ve done. Leaned into him, sought his warmth, his comfort, like he’s something I need instead of something I should fear.
I jerk upright.
“I’m tired.” The words tumble out too fast. “I want to go back to my room.”
“Violet—”
“Please.”
A pause. Then he nods.
He walks me back in silence, his hand a brand on the small of my back. At my door, he stops.
“Sleep well, tesoro.”
I don’t answer. Can’t answer.
I just close the door and lean against it until my legs stop shaking.
The silk camisolefeels like sin against my skin.
I don’t know why I chose it. One of the night lingerie sets he selected. Deep burgundy, trimmed with lace, nothing I would ever buy for myself. But I pull it on anyway, along with the matching shorts, and try not to think about my reasoning behind it.
You’re insane,I tell myself, climbing into bed.He kidnapped you. Drugged you. Almost let you starve. He’s clearly a criminal. He took your caliper.
