Page 74 of The Ache That Stayed

But it wasn’t until she slapped me that the truth finally hit.

Not because she touched me. But because she was furious. Terrified. Shaking. And all I could think about was the fact she’d thought I’d left her again. Thought I’d disappeared. Thought I’d abandoned her.

Again.

Because she wasn’t angry about yesterday. She was angry about two years ago. And I’d been too blind to understand the difference. And somehow—some pathetic bastard inside me still noticed how warm her hand felt against my face. That she was touching me.

Because somewhere along the way, Roxanne Talati stopped being temptation. Stopped being forbidden. Stopped being the fantasy I punished myself with. And became something much worse.

Home.

And I left it.

I left her.

No wonder she looked at me like I was something to survive. I deserved that look. Because while I spent two years convincing myself I was protecting her, I never stopped to ask what leaving had done to her.

And now that I had crossed the already blurred line, there was no going back. Years telling myself she was off limits.

Marcello’s.

Untouchable.

But did that stop me from wanting her? No. Neither did it stop me from memorising every little thing about her like it was a problem I couldn’t solve.

Distance wasn’t control. It was denial.

And now I knew exactly what she felt like. There’d be no pretending again. No control that would ever feel like enough again.

And what was worse—now that I kissed her, tasted her, felt her—I wanted more. Because I wasn’t the kind of man who tasted her once and pretended it was enough.

No. I was the kind of man who ruined himself over it.

The water kept running, cold enough to bite, not enough to erase anything. I was still hard, cock unwilling to calm itself down. The cold water hadn’t done a damn thing. My body remained tight and restless, reacting as though she were standing in front of me.

My mind dragged back to the previous day—the road, the chase, the way her body had aligned with mine on the bike like she belonged there. Like she trusted me enough to protect her.

They’d come for me. That was nothing new.

But the second they looked at her—

The second they thought they could use her—my resolve snapped.

I’d gone back for them. Not because I had to. Because I wanted to. One of them spoke about her like it meant nothing. Like she was leverage. I’d broken his jaw for that. The other one didn’t get far enough to try anything stupid. Message delivered.

No one touches—

I stilled.

The thought came, uninvited and clean.

Mine.

I didn’t fight it. Didn’t correct it. Just stood there and let it settle, heavy and permanent, like it had always been waiting for me to admit it. And it didn’t feel wrong.

Maybe that was the problem. Or maybe the problem had started when I convinced myself leaving her was the same thing as saving her. Maybe I’d been lying to myself ever since.

Because the truth was simple. I wasn’t afraid of what I felt. I was afraid of what it would cost. And now that I’d crossed the line—there was no pretending otherwise.