I want to go in. I want to grip him by the back of the neck and introduce his teeth to the curb. I want to drag her out, arms tight behind her back, and remind her what it means to be chosen.
But I play it slow. I want to see how she moves without me.
She smiles politely at the man, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She pulls her hand away when he reaches for it. Soon, she stands and shrugs into her coat. He says something that makes her freeze for half a second, then she laughs—sweet but forced, the kind she gave to me when I first slid into her booth at Basilio’s. She leaves alone.
He stays behind, staring after her like a lost dog.
I wait until the block clears, then I step into her path. “Lucia,” I say, low and quiet.
Startled, she blinks at me, cheeks already wind-chapped. Her mouth moves before her brain catches up. “Alessio. You—what are you?—?”
I cut her off. “Get in the car.”
She gapes at me, offended but not truly. “No. I have to be—wait, are you following me?”
“Always,” I say. I open the back door. “Get in.”
She stands there, clutching her phone like a knife.
I lower my voice, softer than I feel. “It’s important. Please.”
That does it. She slides past me and into the back seat, legs folding primly under her. I climb in after, shutting the door hard enough to rattle the glass.
She looks at me, furious and trembling. “You can’t just?—”
“Who was he?” I ask.
She snorts, shaking her head. “A friend.”
I know when someone’s lying. She’s not. She believes it, whatever else is happening. “Does he matter?”
She hesitates, then: “He has a crush on me.” Her voice is so quiet, I only hear it because I’m leaning into her space.
I stare at her. “Do you have feelings for him?”
She laughs again, shocked and bitter. “No. He’s… safe.”
She looks out the window, arms locked across her chest. “Maybe that’s what I want. Maybe I don’t want a man who burns things down to watch it light up.”
I let the words hang between us, heavy as a brick.
The truth is, I have never been safe for anyone. I am not built for that kind of goodness, that kind of patience. I have never once loved gently, and I’m not about to start now.
She tries to open the car door, but I catch her wrist, thumb pressing into the pulse that races there. “Don’t,” I say.
She yanks free, but I see her flinch, and I am instantly sorry, even as the anger rises. “Look at me, Lucia.”
She avoids me, stubborn to the end, face pressed to the blacked-out glass. But I feel the tension in her, the whole body-rigidity that means something’s about to break; it’s always a question of which piece snaps first, and tonight, I’m betting on her. I let the silence thicken, let her stew, let the warmth of her thigh against mine build into a heat so choking it obliterates speech. She tries one more time for composure, sits up straight, and smooths her hair with trembling fingers.
"Are you going to kidnap me or what?" Her voice is low, a dare and a prayer rolled together.
God, how I want her. But I want her to want it, too, and so I wait.
She relents first, as I knew she would. Her eyes flick up, all bitter sapphire and unshed tears, and that's my signal. I cup her chin, gentle now, using only two fingers. She fights the touch for maybe half a heartbeat before I see her exhale, shoulders slumping into the inevitability of us.
"You're too much," she whispers.
I lean in, crushing our mouths together, claiming her in the only language that matters. She yields with a sound so involuntary it makes me throb, and when my tongue sweeps past her teeth, she bites, just hard enough to remind me she's not gentle either. A flash of heat, a jolt of pain, and I shove my hands up under her coat, dragging her into my lap.