Page 55 of Take Me Darkly

When Anton walked back into the bedroom carrying two mugs, my chest went tight. He wore dark denim and a black henley shirt left unbuttoned at the throat, exposing the powerful planes of his chest. He moved with an effortless, predatory grace that made it impossible to look away.

He handed me a mug without a word, stepping onto the edge of the mattress.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, his dark eyes sweeping over my face.

“Better.” I wrapped both hands around the warm ceramic and took a sip. “The coffee is stronger than usual.”

“You need the caffeine.”

I studied him over the rim. Anton Romano was a man built to withstand scrutiny—carved from granite, unyielding, and perpetually composed. Yet beneath the bespoke suits and the ruthless reputation, I was beginning to see the man beneath.

My eyes trailed down to his long, powerful fingers, and a wave of heat flushed through my body as I remembered what those hands had done to me in the Obsidian Room. He had been slow, deliberate, taking me with a worshipful intensity that had burned away every lingering trace of my grief. He had known instinctively what my soul needed.

I was still lost in the memory when his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Anton glanced at the screen, and something shifted in his expression. It was the slight recalibration of a man whose mind was already somewhere else.

“It’s Alexander Stone,” he noted, stepping away as he swiped the screen.

“Alexander,” Anton greeted, his voice dropping into that smooth, authoritative tone. He listened for a moment, his head tilting slightly. “Yes. I saw the numbers. I told Myla to run the projections against the Q2 model first. The variance won’t hold. That timeline works, though. Have Bryan send the contract language for me to look over.”

He ended the call and stood for a moment looking at the phone, something working behind his eyes that he smoothed away before he turned back to me.

“Everything alright?” I asked.

“Just business.” He crossed the room in two long strides, leaning down to press a warm kiss to the crown of my head—a gesture so natural it sent a thrill through my chest. “I have to step out for a short meeting. Will you be alright here?”

“I’m fine,” I said softly. “Go.”

He held my gaze for a long beat, his dark eyes intense, before turning to grab his coat.

When the door closed, the apartment felt vast and quiet.

I sat up, my gaze drifting to the low mahogany dresser across the room. It held almost everything left of my former life. Zeke had gone back to the charred house in Lucca after the fire. Nothing had been worth saving, but thankfully, I still had a car full of belongings that I’d never unpacked after returning home. I had a small but decent selection of clothing, my passport, the research binders from the dig in Rome, and one small cedar box.

I swung my legs out of bed and walked barefoot to the dresser. Opening the top drawer, I pulled out the cedar box nestled beneath the clothing. My father had given it to me one afternoon in his cramped university office that smelled of coffee and old maps. He’d placed it in my palm without ceremony, the way he gave everything he valued—as if the importance of the thing was self-evident and did not require announcement.

The box was smaller than I remembered, smelling faintly of dried lavender and aged cedar when opened. Inside, wrapped in squares of black velvet, rested three ancient coins.

I carefully unwrapped the first piece. The gold coin was worn smooth at the high points, heavy in my palm. On one side was the side profile of Marcus Junius Brutus. On the other, a pileus cap flanked by two daggers. It was the Ides of March coin, also known at the Brutus Denarius.

Anton had spent years hunting this for his collection. He believed the coins were unattainable, and yet I was holding three of them. Two silver, and one gold—a coin nobody knew existed.

I unwrapped the remaining two silver coins, turning each over in my palm.

My father had given them to me to protect, calling them the ultimate proof of historical survival and permanence.

Proof of survival.

He had used the exact phrase Anton had spoken hours ago—two men from entirely different worlds, bound by the same reverence for objects that endured.

I carefully rewrapped the two silver coins and set them back inside the velvet lining. I kept the gold piece out, turning it over in my fingers.

I knew with absolute certainty that I wanted to give one to Anton. It wasn’t just a gift. It was a surrender. A declaration of everything I felt for him, far beyond gratitude or proximity.

But this coin had been my father’s. It reminded me of his cluttered office and every lesson delivered with a bent-headed seriousness that I’d sometimes resented and would now give almost anything to have back. Giving it away was not a small thing. It needed to be at the right moment—not just an afterthought. It needed to be the kind of moment that would reflect what this coin meant to me.

I turned the coin over once more. Marcus Junius Brutus, the profile of the man on this coin, believed he was doing the right thing when he assassinated Julius Caesar. He looked back at me, patient as ever, two thousand years of judgment seeming suspended in just a few grams of metal.