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"Romeo, please! I'm going to come!" I scream, my fingers tangling in his thick hair, holding his face clamped tight between my thighs.

"Come for your husband, Kitten," he demands hoarsely, his tongue picking up speed, flicking in a relentless, punishing rhythm while his thumb slides into my entrance, stretching my tight pussy. "Drench my face."

My body shatters into a million pieces of pure light.

My inner walls convulse in violent, breathless spasms, clamping down around his thumb as wave after wave of hot liquid gushes over his face. I sob into the dark, my heels digging into the mattress, my head thrashing against the pillows as the orgasm wrings every drop of strength from my limbs.

Romeo drinks me down like a dying man in a desert, licking every trace of my release from my skin until my quivering thighs finally fall limp against his shoulders.

He pulls away, panting heavily, and climbs onto the bed beside me.

Instead, he pulls me flush against his hard, naked chest, wrapping his arms around me like an iron fortress. He is breathing hard, his heavy cock rigid and leaking pre-cum against my bare hip, but he makes no move to take his own release.

He simply holds me, his fingers stroking my hair, pressing kisses to the crown of my head, letting me float in the warm, safe darkness he created for me.

"Are you going to fuck me? I can’t remember how many times I came." I whisper into his neck, my voice hoarse and languid with pleasure.

Romeo chuckles softly, his hand warm and heavy as it rests over my hip.

"Later, my little wife," he rumbles against my hair. "For now, you just rest in the dark. I have you. I will always have you. And it was five times. I heard the number seven is a lucky number."

I smile into his chest, curling my fingers into his shirt, letting the sea rock us into peace.

TWELVE

IRIS

The air in Capri moves like liquid silk, warm and fragrant with the scent of wild jasmine, sun-baked limestone, and the subtle, earthy tang of clay.

My fingers, still rough with the ghosts of resin and solvents from my days in the Boston studio, glide over the cool, smooth surface of a freshly stretched canvas. The easel, a gift from Romeo, is carved from dark olive wood, heavy and solid beneath my touch. It stands at the far end of my studio, positioned precisely where the morning light floods the room in a gentle glow that allows my damaged eyes to see the softest edges of white on white.

This new studio is nothing like the one Romeo built me in Sicily. There are no carved textures on the paint bowls, and no automated light sensors to adjust for my blindness. Here, in Capri, the windows are flung wide to the sea. The doors stand open to the breeze. And the light is simply... light.

Romeo said he built this studio for my new eyes. He said I would learn to paint with colors again when I saw the beauty through his devotion.

Arrogant bastard.

As the days have bled into weeks on this island, my rage that once burned so hot begins to soften, while the salt spray from the ocean coats my skin and the sun warms my bones. Not into forgiveness, not yet, but into something pliable, something I can work with.

I dip my fingers into a bowl of cadmium yellow, feeling the thick, gritty texture of the sun-baked stone beneath my skin. Then, with a slow, deliberate stroke, I smear it across the canvas, feeling the faint drag of the coarse linen beneath my palm.

I am painting the sunrise over the Faraglioni rocks, the massive sea stacks that guard the entrance to our private cove.

My vision is still a world of smoke and shadow. The sky is a blurred wash of gray. The sea is a darker, churning gray. But I can feel the colors now. I feel the warmth of the yellow in my hands, the cool depth of the cobalt blue, and the rich, earthy strength of raw umber.

I paint with my fingers. I paint with my soul. And for the first time in three long years, my art is not just about anger. It is about connection.

Sofia lies curled on a velvet rug near the open studio doors, her head resting on her paws, one golden eye cracked open to watch my movements. She is my shadow, my anchor, and my most loyal companion. When I reach the edges of the canvas, she nudges her wet nose against my knee, guiding me back to the center of the room.

Romeo bought her for me, of course. Just like he bought this studio. Just like he bought this island.

He still stalks me.

I found a new set of photos in his bedside table drawer this morning and demanded he explain the photos because I could see the outline of a woman's body. I don’t care interrupted a video meeting in his office; I needed to know. Pictures of me floating in the cove, my hair fanned out around my face like seaweed. Pictures of me eating figs on the sundeck, my eyes closed to the sun. Pictures of me sketching in my old canvas notebook, my brow furrowed in concentration.

He always watches me with a relentless, unblinking intensity that should terrify me. It should make my skin crawl. It should send me screaming into the streets of Anacapri, begging for mercy.

But it doesn't.