The elevator doors opened.
She was there, again.
Paola. My wife. Curled on my couch in an emerald silk nightgown that clung to curves I'd been trying not to think about all day. Dark hair tumbled loose around her shoulders. Green eyes wide, alert despite the hour.
In an echo of the previous day, I’d warned her this morning not to wait up again. But here she was anyway. Would this be a habit? It made something in me ache, stepping into what had always been an empty apartment and seeing someone look up expectantly.
She'd been sleeping—I could see it in her slightly disoriented expression, the way she blinked against the sudden light.
Something about that knowledge—that she couldn't sleep until I came home—did things to my chest I didn't want to examine.
"You're awake," I said, setting down my bag, shrugging off my jacket.
"I couldn't sleep." Her honesty is like an arrow to the heart, but it sets off alarm bells as well–she’ll need to learn to lie if she’s going to survive in my world.
I should tell her to go to bed. Should keep my distance. Give her the space I promised.
Instead, I moved toward her—drawn like a magnet to metal.
She didn't move. Just watched me approach with those wide eyes—fear and something else. Curiosity? Attraction? It’s been the same look all week, but I haven’t figured her out, and she hasn’t told me what she’s thinking. Not unless I ask.
And a part of me–the weakest part–is too scared to ask what she thinks ofme.
I stopped in front of the couch. Close enough to touch. She had to tilt her head back to meet my gaze.
The nightgown was nearly the same color as her eyes. The neckline was modest but the fabric betrayed her—outlining curves, hinting at the body beneath. Heat flooded my system. Hunger. Need.
I was already losing my carefully constructed control.
I braced my hand on the couch beside her head, leaning over her. Not touching. Not yet.
"You should be in bed."
"I tried." Her eyes searched my face. "Couldn't."
The pattern was becoming clear—Paola didn't lie well. Didn't hide her emotions the way Bianca would have. Everything she felt played across her face: fear, defiance, confusion, and—there—desire. Brief but unmistakable.
"You're thinking too much," I observed. "I can see it. Calculating. Planning."
A flush colored her cheeks. Caught. "Isn't that what prisoners do? Plan their escape?"
"You're not a prisoner."
"No?" There was a challenge in her voice, and I had to fight back a smile. "Then what am I?"
Good question. I didn’t have an answer that wouldn't sound like a lie.
"You're my wife," I settled on. It was the only truth that mattered.
She looked away, but not before I caught something in her expression—resignation mixed with something I couldn't quite identify. Acceptance? Or something more dangerous?
My hand moved to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Unexpectedly gentle, even to me.
Her skin was impossibly soft. She shivered at my touch but didn't pull away.
"You've had time to think," I said quietly. "About what comes next. About us."
Her throat worked as she swallowed. She knew exactly what I meant.
