“Which of the cars would you like to be driven in?”
The voice broke the silence—and the quiet confusion curling in my chest.
I turned.
Slowly.
Vincenzo stood framed in the doorway that led back into the house, as though he had been watching the entire time without interrupting.
He was already dressed for whatever business awaited him—tailored black suit cut to perfection, white shirt left open at the collar just enough to reveal the faint shadow of his collarbone.
His sleeves were rolled to mid-forearm, exposing strong, controlled lines of muscle.
The morning light caught him in a way that felt almost intentional.
It sharpened the line of his jaw.
Deepened the darkness of his eyes.
For a moment, I forgot how to speak.
My mouth went dry.
I hated that it did.
Hated the way my pulse jumped the moment his gaze stayed on me too long, the way something warm—traitorous—unfurled beneath my navel like a slow, uninvited flame.
I hated that my body reacted at all.
After everything.
After the ridge.
After the blood.
After the words he had thrown at me with such precision they still echoed inside my chest.
And yet—
There it was.
That pull.
Quiet. Persistent. Unwanted.
As though my body had decided, completely independent of my mind, that he was still something safe.
Something familiar.
Something... close to home.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my expression into something neutral as I turned my gaze away from him.
His eyes didn’t leave me.
Those cold, beautiful eyes—sharp enough to cut, steady enough to trap—watched me with the same intensity he always did.
“Which of the cars would you prefer?” he repeated, slower this time.
