ALESSIO
The next morning, I wake her with silence. No voice, no touch, just the scent of coffee from the stovetop percolator and the faint scramble of eggs in my favorite pan. I watch from the kitchen, arms folded, as she emerges—barefoot, wild-haired and blinking in the almost-gold of sunrise, my t-shirt, worn thin from a hundred washes, hanging off one shoulder and barely reaching mid-thigh. The faded logo stretches across her chest, declaring her mine more effectively than any designer label ever could. She's half-dream, half-wreckage, and all mine.
“Hungry?” I ask. My voice is too bright—raucous and raw after so many hours stewing in rage, plotting and re-plotting the slow death of John Stuyvesant’s reputation. But I keep that venom off my tongue for now.
Lucy gathers herself by the window, squinting as she drags a finger along the glass. Outside, the city glitters. Up here, there’s only sky and me and the sound of creamy eggs crackling in a cast-iron pan. She nods, swallowing, and I can tell by her bones that she didn’t really sleep.
I consider carrying her to the table, but she moves first—shuffling, then sitting awkwardly on a breakfast stool, both hands curled around her knees. She’s still testing thearchitecture of this home: the layout, the friction, the boundaries she’ll need to hold or break.
I serve the eggs on a white plate, add a slice of sourdough and a tiny dish of sea salt, then slide them across the counter to her. She eyes the food, then me, wary but amused. “You’re becoming domestic?”
“Don’t get used to it.” I pour her coffee. “You need to eat.”
She hesitates, then picks at the toast’s crust with her thumb. I almost say something sharp, but instead, I reach for her wrist and tug her closer. She lets me–always lets me.
I pull up a stool and wedge my thigh alongside hers. I fork a bite of egg and hold it up—close enough to her lips that, when she opens them, I see the faint pink of bruised flesh from where she bit down, hard, on the inside of her cheek. Out of fear? Defiance? I don’t know, and I’ll never ask. I tilt the fork, and she takes the food, chewing slowly, eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re safe here,” I say, barely above a whisper.
She scoffs, voice rough. “That’s a service you charge extra for, isn’t it?”
I grin. “Only for people who pay on time. You,” I say, “are in arrears.”
She laughs louder now, the tension breaking, before I hush her with a kiss—short, lazy, tasting of coffee and yolk. When I move back, her mouth is open, waiting. Wanting. I give her another bite, then another, and after the third one, she pushes up onto her knees, leans in, and steals the next kiss right off my lips.
There’s something undone about her. The usual bluff and bluster is gone, replaced by a rawness that would scare most men, but I want it more than I want vengeance. I cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, and pull her to me, letting the food go cold as I taste desperation at the corner of her mouth.
Her hands are on my chest, clutching fistfuls of cotton that strain at the seams of my shirt. She tugs me forward, just enough to tip the stool and force me to grab the counter for balance. We nearly take the whole spread with us, and she laughs again, softer this time, like she can’t remember how to breathe when I’m this close.
I sweep an arm around her tiny waist and lift her off the stool, seating her on the counter’s edge. The curve of her thigh runs warm against my hip. Our bodies are nothing more than gravity and momentum now, and I memorize the shadow of her collarbone, the pitch of her voice as it drops into a hush.
“You don’t have to take care of me,” she says, fingers tracing a vein on my forearm.
“You’re not a job, Lucy,” I say her name like a benediction. “You’re the only thing in this world that makes doing all of this shit mean anything.”
She shivers once, then leans forward, pressing her forehead to my jaw. Her skin smells clean, washed in my shower and my soap, scrubbed of yesterday’s fear. “So what now?” she asks. “Am I just supposed to wait around until they come knocking again?”
“No one comes for you unless I let them. That’s the new rule.”
She shifts, lips at my ear. “And if I want to leave?”
I lift her and set her on the floor. Hands on each shoulder, I force her to look at me. “Then I’ll follow,” I say. “Everywhere.” I mean it—she can run all the way to the moon, and still, I’d find a way.
She looks down, then up again, blue eyes hard. “You’re not going to let me go, are you?”
“Not a chance.” I kiss her, letting the words settle in her mouth.
There’s something primal in the air now—an animal hunger that neither of us is trying to hide. I move to the sink, rinse my hands, then dry them on a towel. Lucy watches every move, chintucked and gaze sharp, as if she’s waiting for me to break her again. But I don’t.
“Finish your eggs,” I say, and she startles, confused. I watch her eat, slow and even, because right now, food is the only thing keeping her from collapsing. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, still wary, as if at any moment I might toss her over my shoulder and haul her into some dungeon.
Instead, I pull out a second stool and sit beside her, close enough for my knee to brush hers under the counter. We eat in silence, the early morning city humming beneath us. Every so often, I catch her glancing sideways, measuring me, looking for the crack in the armor. She won’t find it today.
When breakfast is done, I take her hand and lead her, not to the bedroom, but to my study—a room she’s never actually seen. I unlock the door with a key from my pocket. She pauses on the threshold, looking at the shelves lined with books and rare bottles, the desk stacked with files in brutal disarray. There’s no art on the walls. I don’t keep photographs. Only an old clock, dark wood and brass, that sits on the shelf above my head like an unblinking eye.
I set her down on the cracked leather of my desk chair. She tugs the hem of the shirt modestly over her thighs, but her legs are bare, pale in the filtered morning light. Her feet dangle above the floor. She flexes her toes and looks up expectantly.
“Sit still,” I tell her, voice soft but absolute.