“This. Us. Whatever this is.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then he rolls me onto my back so he can look at me properly. His grey eyes are intense even half-asleep, studying my face like he’s trying to read my thoughts.
“Regrets already?”
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” I push my hair out of my face. “This is complicated, Dante.”
“Everything about us is complicated. Doesn’t make it wrong.”
“Doesn’t make it right either.”
His jaw tightens. “You’re the one who said you were done running. That you wanted this.”
“I know what I said.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
How do I explain that I’m terrified? That letting him in like this feels like giving up the last piece of control I have? That I’m falling for a man who kills people for a living and I don’t know how to reconcile that with who I am?
“The problem is that this changes everything,” I finally say. “And I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
“Too late. Everything already changed the moment you called me.” He cups my face with one hand. “The moment you got on that plane. The moment you let me touch you last night. You don’t get to take it back now.”
“I’m not trying to take it back. I’m just saying this is a lot to process.”
“Then process it. But do it here, in my bed, where you belong.”
The possessiveness in his voice should annoy me and make me want to argue and push back and insist on my independence.
Instead it makes heat pool low in my belly because apparently I have terrible taste in men.
“I need to check on Luca,” I say, trying to change the subject.
“Rosa’s with him. He’s fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I pay attention to everything in my house. And because Rosa texted me twenty minutes ago to say he’s eating breakfast and asking where you are.”
I feel a pang of guilt. “I should go to him.”
“In a minute.” Dante’s hand slides down my side possessively. “First, tell me you’re not going to run.”
“I’m literally naked in your bed. Where would I run to?”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
I look at him, studying him intently. At the scar on his shoulder from god knows what. At the hard lines of his face that soften slightly when he looks at our son.
“I’m not running,” I say quietly. “I told you that last night and I meant it. But I need you to understand that this terrifies me.”
“What terrifies you?”
“This.” I gesture to the air. “This line we’ve crossed. I?—”
He leans forward and covers my mouth with his in a kiss, slow and deep, and I forget why I was worried in the first place.
By the time I make it downstairs, Luca is on his second helping of pancakes and chattering away to Rosa about dinosaurs.
