Good.
The transaction happens in rapid Italian. I don’t catch all of it, but the saleswoman’s eyes widen as she hands him five bags filled with garments I didn’t pick. I guess old habits die hard. Then Elio’s hand finds the small of my back, pressing his palm against my bare skin where the dress leaves my spine exposed, and guides me toward the door. The heat of his touch searsstraight through me, no silk barrier, just rough calluses against smooth skin I haven’t let anyone see in years.
I lean into it. Don’t pull away. Don’t stiffen. Just press closer, letting my body mold to the pressure of his hand like it’s the most natural thing, like I’ve been waiting for this exact point of contact.
His fingers flex against my spine, a sharp, involuntary flex, and I hear the quick hitch in his breath, the sound he tries to swallow.
I’m pushing deliberately now.
Testing how far I can go before he snaps, before I snap, before this careful game we’re both playing breaks wide open.
The restaurant he takes me to screams privacy and money.
A few other patrons look up as we walk through the main dining room. People in expensive suits and designer dresses eating their lunch like they don’t have a care in the world. Like the world kept on turning while I was held captive in Elio’s gilded cage. Which I guess it did. We don’t stop at any of the empty tables, instead, I’m led through a heavy door into a private room.
Marble floors. Soundproofed walls covered in deep burgundy fabric. A single table set for two, candles already burning, wine already breathing.
The door closes behind us with a soft click, making me jump.
It’s the first time since this morning that we’ve been alone. No guards, no tourists, no salespeople.
Staff bring courses and leave. Quick, efficient, professional. Between service, it’s just us. The silence charged with everything neither of us is saying. I watch him across the table. The way his eyes keep dropping to my neckline. The white-knuckle grip on his fork. The effort it’s taking to maintain composure.
“The guard from last night,” I say between bites of something delicate I don’t taste. “What happened to him?”
His fork goes down too carefully.
“He was taken to the hospital. I’ve been told they’ve managed to reset his bones.” His voice is flat. “He won’t work for me again.”
“Because you fired him, or because he’s too scared?”
“Both.”
I lean forward. The movement shifts the dress, bares more of my side breast. His eyes drop, then snap back to my face with visible effort.
“I keep thinking about it.”
His whole body tenses. “The guard?”
“No.” I hold his gaze. “You. The way you moved. The look on your face when you broke his arm.”
Silence.
“No one’s ever done that for me,” I continue. Voice soft. “Broken bones over an insult. Protected me like that. Made it absolutely clear that anyone who disrespects me will suffer for it.”
His breathing changes from controlled to a rhythm that’s fast and shallow.
“Violet—”
“I wanted to see it again.” The admission slips out. “Last night, when we walked back, I wanted you to lose control again. Wanted to feel that focus on me.”
“Stop.” Low. Warning.
I don’t stop.
“Did you mean it? When you said I was yours?”
“Tesoro—”
