I leaned down until my lips brushed her temple.
“And you’ll sleep there again tonight,” I murmured, low enough for only her to hear. “Every night. Naked. In my bed. Where you belong.”
She shivered visibly. Her thighs pressed together under the table.
Matteo made a dramatic gagging sound. “Can you two at least wait until after I eat? I’m traumatized enough.”
“You’ll survive,” I said dryly, never taking my eyes off Aurora.
She was biting her lip now, cheeks pink, looking thoroughly embarrassed and turned on at the same time. I loved it. Loved that they all knew she was mine. Loved that she was starting to accept it too.
The cook finally returned with fresh plates, still avoiding eye contact. Smart man.
I watched Aurora eat, small and perfect at my table, wearing my shirt, marked by my hands, and something dark and possessive roared to life inside me.
Let them know. Let the whole goddamn world know.
Aurora Ventura was no longer just a hostage or a complication. She was becoming my home.
And I would burn everything down before I let anyone take her from me.
Aurora, being Aurora, refused to just sit still and be served.
“I want to help,” she announced after a few bites of yogurt, already sliding off her chair. “I can make the fruit salad.”
Before I could tell her she didn’t need to lift a finger in this house, she was already at the counter beside the cook, rolling up the sleeves of my shirt. She looked ridiculous and perfect at the same time, drowning in black fabric, bare legs, messy hair, and that determined little expression that made me want to both kiss her and lock her in my room for the rest of her life.
I watched her from the table, unable to look away. She reached for a knife, a perfectly ordinary chef’s knife, and started slicing strawberries.
Then it happened.
A small hiss of breath. A single drop of blood welled up on her palm.
“Oops,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just spilled blood in front of me.
The entire kitchen went dead silent.
I was out of my chair before the word fully left her mouth. The chair crashed backward onto the marble floor with a loud bang. In three strides I was across the kitchen, grabbing her wrist with a grip that was probably too tight.
I turned her hand over, eyes locked on the tiny cut. It was barely anything, a shallow slice, one small bead of blood. But all I could see was red. All I could feel was the memory of blood on my hands. Angelo’s blood. Too much blood. Always too much.
I checked it again. Then again. Brushing my thumb beside the cut, watching another microscopic drop appear.
“Santino…” Aurora started.
“Marco,” I barked, voice sharp as a blade.
Marco started laughing, the bastard. Deep, genuine laughter that echoed through the kitchen.
“Don’t start,” I growled without looking at him.
He raised both hands in surrender, still chuckling. “I’m not saying anything.”
“Good.”
“It’s a paper cut,” he added anyway.
I shot him a lethal glare. “Get the medic.”
