"You have no privacy. We've discussed this."
"You discussed it. I had to listen."
“Are you always this defiant?”
“You tell me, don’t you have my resume?”
His lips twitch almost into a smile.
“You were going to run.”
He steps closer. Suddenly, he’s everywhere, towering over me, his body cutting off my air, my options, my sense of direction. I never considered myself a short woman, at five-foot-five, but at six-foot-four, he doesn’t just stand in front of me; he looms. My gaze barely reaches the center of his chest, and I have to tilt my head back to look at his face.
He’s shirtless.
Completely, unfairly, shirtless with nothing but the bandage on his side covering the wound.
Dark ink sprawls across his skin, tattoos wrapping his arms, stretching over his chest, disappearing beneath the waistband of his pants like secrets I’m not allowed to know yet. Every muscle is carved, powerful, made for violence and control. His abdomen is hard, defined, a ridged plane of strength that makes my mouth go dry by standing this close.
I’m close enough to feel his heat. Close enough that my forehead could rest against his chest if I let it. Close enough that one hand from him would span my waist entirely.
My mind is screaming danger, desperately searching for an escape, for space, for distance.
But my body doesn’t care.
My body notices how small I am compared to him. How easily he could pin me there without effort. How natural it feels to be swallowed by his presence.
I swallow, forcing myself to remember why I was standing near the door in the first place.
His gaze drops, lingers, sharp and knowing, as if he feels the exact second my resolve fractures and he remembers why he’s standing here as well.
“Where,” he asks quietly, “did you think you’d go?”
"Away from you."
"And your family? Were you planning to leave them unprotected while you ran?"
"I’d figure it out," I retort.
His dark eyes bore into mine. "I don’t think you planned this out at all. You were thinking about freedom. About escape. About that normal life you keep pretending you still want."
"I do want it."
"Do you?"
He reaches out, and I flinch, but his touch is gentle. Just his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear.
"You could have left last week," he murmurs. "When I was bleeding out on that sofa. When the entire house was in chaos. No one would have stopped you."
I open my mouth to argue, but the words won't come.
He’s right, I'd had the perfect opportunity. Salvatore was in pain, the guards were distracted, and everyone was focused on saving the Don. I could have walked out the front door, and no one would have noticed until it was too late.
Instead, I'd stayed. I'd watched the doctor work on him. Stood there so he didn’t feel alone, and, put my hand on his thigh when his leg started shaking.
"Why didn't you run then?" he asks, and his voice is different now. Quieter. Almost vulnerable.
I don't have an answer.
