Page 84 of Ruthless Grace

We smell like cordite, ozone, raw iron, and sulfur. It is the scent of a battle that almost cost us everything.

He carries me past the king bed, straight into the expansive marble-and-mahogany master bathroom, kicking the glass-paneled door open with the heavy heel of his tactical boot.

“Sit,” he commands. The word doesn’t carry his usual cold, executive authority. It is a raw, rough rasp. The sound of a man who has just looked into an abyss and barely managed to drag his wife back over the edge.

He lowers me onto the edge of the heated marble soaking tub. I don’t fight him, and I don’t offer any professional detachment. My pulse is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and the adrenaline is beginning to crash, leaving behind a heavy, trembling ache in my limbs.

“Luca,” I breathe out, my fingers reaching up to catch his wrist before he can turn away. “I’m not made of glass. Look at me.”

His dark eyes snap to mine, burning with an unholy intensity. “You had a gun pressed under your jaw tonight, Gia. Let me look.”

Luca turns on the brass shower fixtures, letting scalding steam billow into the room until the glass walls fog over into a private, sealed cocoon. Then he reaches for a fresh washcloth, soaking it under the steaming tap and splashing unscented medicinal soap across the fabric.

He steps directly between my knees. He doesn’t say a word, but his gaze crawls over my face, searching every millimeter of my skin to convince himself I am truly here, whole and breathing.

“Let me,” he whispers, his fingers sliding up to frame my jaw before drifting down to the torn collar of my blouse.

With agonizing, reverent care, he pulls the shredded silk away from my shoulders, exposing my skin to the thick, rolling steam. He takes the warm, soapy washcloth and begins to wipe the gray warehouse dust and sweat from my neck, my collarbones, and my arms. His calloused thumbs trace every inch of my skin, lingering over the pulse point in my throat as if he can physically feel my life pumping beneath his touch.

When he reaches my left forearm, his movements turn sharp and clinical. He washes away the dried blood from the glass laceration, his thumb smoothing antiseptic ointment over the shallow three-inch scratch with the gentle precision of a surgeon dressing a delicate wound.

“You’re bleeding on me,” he murmurs, his Italian leaking through his teeth, rough and dark against the steam.

“It’s just a surface cut, Luca,” I whisper, my voice thick. I reach up, my fingers tangling in his wet, dark hair, pulling his forehead down until it rests against mine. “Stop playing head nurse. Strip that vest off.”

A low, primal growl vibrates deep in his chest. Dropping the washcloth into the sink, Luca steps closer, pulling me flush against his hips. He rips the remaining buttons of his wet shirt apart, casting the ruined fabric away, before lifting me up entirely and stepping into the cascading, roaring heat of the shower.

The wall of water drenches us instantly, plastering my ruined blouse transparent against my skin and plastering Luca’s dark hair across his forehead.

The heat is suffocating, driving the last remnants of the cold warehouse air from our lungs and replacing it with an unbearable, electric ache of pure physical need. Luca backs me against the waterproof marble wall of the shower, his hands splaying wide across my lower back, lifting me so my legs lock tight around his narrow waist.

“When I saw that bastard holding a gun to your face,” he growls against my throat, his teeth grazing my skin with a fierce, punishing pressure, “I wanted to raze everything he owned to the waterline before I killed him.”

“You didn’t hesitate,” I reply, my breath hitching as his lips press a hot, bruising trail down my neck, finding the exact spot where my pulse races out of control. “You took the shot through the smoke.”

“Because you called my name,” he snaps, his massive hands gripping my thighs, sliding higher beneath the wet silk of my skirt, his fingers pressing into my skin with bruising intensity. “You didn’t flinch, Gia. Even with a gun to your head, you looked at me like I owned the air you breathe.”

“I knew you were coming,” I murmur, my fingernails digging deep into the thick, tense muscles of his shoulders, needing to anchor myself to his solid, breathing weight. “I never doubted it for a second. Now take off the rest of these clothes, Valentino. I’m tired of breathing through silk.”

He doesn’t wait. With frantic, trembling efficiency, Luca shuts off the water, wraps a thick Turkish towel around us both, and carries me out of the steaming bathroom directly into the darkened master bedroom.

The rain hammers against the arched windows, casting bruised shadows across the king-size bed and the dark velvet headboard. Luca lays me down on the cool silk sheets, his body following mine downward like an avalanche.

The careful, respectful restraint of the past few weeks—the protective medical caution after my lumpectomy—shatters entirely. Every separate room clause, every rule we ever wrote is burned away in the fire of what we just survived.

Luca tears the towel away with rough, fevered efficiency, his mouth immediately seeking mine in a deep, bruising kiss that tastes of smoke, salt, and raw possession. I arch my back against the mattress, my hands dragging down his chest, clawing at his skin, needing to feel every muscle, every scar, every ounce of his living weight pressing into me.

“You are mine,” Luca breathes against my lips, his voice dropping into a thick rasp as he positions his body over mine. “Always and only mine, Gia.”

“Always,” I gasp, pulling him down harder, opening myself to him with a fierce, absolute surrender that strips away all our remaining armor.

When he enters me, a sharp, breathless cry tears from my throat, swallowed instantly by his mouth as he drives forward with a heavy, driving rhythm that completely steals my breath.

It isn’t gentle. It is a desperate, feral coupling born of the terrifying knowledge of how close we came to losing everything. Every thrust is an assertion of survival, a visceral claiming of the space we carved out of the war. Luca holds my face between his massive hands, his eyes locked onto mine with an unblinking, consuming intensity as he drives us both higher, faster, toward the edge.

“Look at me,” he commands hoarsely, his Italian slipping through every frantic syllable. “Guardami. Sei mia.”

“I’m looking,” I cry out, my fingernails biting deep into his shoulders, my body clenching around him as the white-hot pressure builds behind my ribs, threatening to fracture my control. “Luca... Luca⁠—”