He doesn’t smile. Just stares at the sketch he set aside, and I watch something move behind his eyes, fast and dark, like a school of fish scattering from a shadow.
He’d warned me, in his halting way, that his past was blood and violence, like my family’s. I thought I was ready for that. I wasn’t ready for how different he would feel with more of it back inside him.
He’s remembered more than he’s saying. A lot more. And it’s upsetting him. I’ve spent my life reading dangerous men, learning to spot the subtle tells that signal a coming storm. The rigid set of his shoulders. The careful blankness of his face. The unnerving stillness in his hands. These are all warning signs, red flags snapping in a gale-force wind. And I’m walking straight toward them.
My hand covers his. It’s a reflex, an instinct to offer comfort. His skin is cool. He flinches, just for a second, before his eyes snap to mine.
“It seems like you remembered more,” I say softly. “Anything you want to talk about?”
I want to be his safe place. The person he can come to when the world gets too heavy. He’s done that for me. I want to do it for him.
“No.”
The word comes out hard and final. No hedging, no softening. I wait. He squeezes my hand, flips it over, runs his thumb across my palm. The gesture is gentle, but the tension in his shoulders hasn’t moved.
“Are you sure? You seem...” I search for the right word.Dangerous. “Off.”
“I’m sure I don’t want to talk about it right now.” He pulls in a breath and lets it out slow. “Just trust me. Okay?”
A month ago, that sentence from any man would have made me laugh. Trust is what my father asks for when he’s about to take something from you. Trust is what Nikolai demands before he breaks a promise.
But Luca isn’t them. Or at least, the side of him I know isn’t.
“Okay.” I give him a small smile. “We don’t have to pick at it.”
But his gaze drops to the sketch again, and I catch the flinch. Quick, barely there, the kind of micro-expression most people would miss.
Whatever Luca remembered tonight, it didn’t just upset him. It scared him.
I take his chin and turn his face to mine, pressing my forehead against his. “After everything, I just want you to be okay.”
I hover my lips over his, a silent offering of comfort. I want to soothe him, to erase the harsh lines around his eyes. I want to give him a reason to stay in the light.
But the moment our lips touch, everything changes. His hands fly up to my face, pulling me into a kiss that isn’t gentle or comforting. It’s desperate. Messy. A raw, hungry claiming.
Through the chaos, I hear him whisper, “You’re too damn good.”
His tongue is in my mouth, deep and demanding, and I can’t keep up. His hands are clawing at me, as if he can’t get close enough. My head spins. This isn’t what I intended. This is something else entirely.
“Luca, I?—”
“Shh.” He silences me with another bruising kiss, one hand moving to my throat, his thumb pressing against my pulse point. The other hand finds the shoulder of my wrap dress and shoves it down, rough and impatient.
My body and my mind are on two different tracks. One is screaming at me to ask questions, to demand answers. The other is melting under his touch, craving more of this wild, dangerous energy.
The craving wins. His lips leave mine, trailing a hot path down my neck, his teeth grazing my skin. The cool air hits my breast as he exposes it, the lace of my bra a flimsy barrier. He tearsit away. Literally. The sound of ripping fabric is a shock in the silent room.
“Luca!”
“You have more,” he snarls, his voice a whip crack. “Don’t worry about a fucking bra.”
What has gotten into him?
And why don’t I want him to stop?
My dress is pooled around my hips, held only by the sash at my waist. His eyes drop to it, hot and predatory. He unties it in one sharp tug, pulling the silk free.
His eyes drag over me.
