"You saved me," he says quietly. "That night in the ER. You didn't have to. You could have called the police. Reported the gunshot wound. Watched them haul me away." He's close enough now that I can feel his heat. "But you didn't."
"I should have."
"But you didn't." His hand comes up, fingers brushing my cheek. "You protected me. Even then. You knew I was dangerous and you protected me anyway." His thumb traces my lower lip and my breath catches. "Why, Francesca?"
"I don't know." It's the truth. I've asked myself that question a hundred times since that night. "You looked at me and I just... I don't know."
"Yes, you do."
And maybe I do. Maybe I saw something in him that night. Something broken and dangerous and human all at once. Maybe that's why I lied. Why I protected him.
Or maybe I'm just trying to justify the unjustifiable.
"I'm tired," I say, because I can't do this anymore. Can't stand here with him touching me, looking at me like I'm the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life. "I want to go to bed."
His hand drops away slowly, reluctantly. "Then go." He doesn't move, doesn't try to stop me. "Sleep well,miaFrancesca." The possessive pronoun wraps around my name—a claim, a brand.
I walk past him, down the hallway to my room. Close the door behind me. Stand there with my palm flat against the lock.
I could lock it. He said he wouldn't lock me in, but he didn't say I couldn't lock him out.
I don't. I don't know why. I just don't.
Instead, I go to the bathroom and wash my face. Brush my teeth with the toothbrush he provided. Stare at myself in the mirror and try to recognize the woman looking back at me.
She looks terrified. She looks trapped.
She looks alive in a way she hasn't felt in years.
I hate her a little bit.
I return to the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. Sleeping in my clothes would be smart. Staying ready to run.
But I'm exhausted. Bone-deep tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour and everything to do with the weight of this day.
I take off my shoes. My jeans. My sweater. Climb under the covers in my bra and underwear.
The sheets are soft. Egyptian cotton, probably. A thousand thread count. The kind of luxury I've never been able to afford.
I lie there in the dark, wondering which room is his. Wonder if it's the locked one. Wonder what he looks like when he sleeps. If he sleeps. If men like him even need rest or if they're always watching, always waiting, always hunting.
Any rational person would be plotting escape right now. Thinking about phones, windows, locked doors. Ways out.
Instead, I'm lying here in the dark, thinking about him in the next room.
Whether he's thinking about me too.
Why part of me hopes he is.
I close my eyes. His face fills the darkness behind my lids—the certainty in his expression when he kissed me, when he said I was his.
My heart pounds.
Because I'm starting to believe him.
9
LUCA
