Because this man—who shares Raf’s face, Raf’s movements and expressions—holds his woman like she’s oxygen, like nothing exists outside her.
And she melts into him, hands gripping his shoulders, breath catching against his lips.
It unleashes a dangerous hurricane of emotion behind my ribs—shock, discomfort, warmth, and at the very root of it, a jealousy that makes my cheeks burn.
Not because I want Sandro—but because it’s almost like I’m watching Evi claim what’s mine.
No, not mine.
Mortification strikes hard and fast as I realize just how irrational my reaction is.
Because not only is Sandro entirely the wrong twin, but evenRafdoesn’t belong to me.
Whether he’s my husband or not.
And still, I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from the passionate and devastatingly romantic scene unfolding before me.
When Sandro finally pulls back, breaking their kiss as he cradles Evi’s face in his palms, he murmurs, “Come upstairs with me.”
She laughs breathlessly. “But you’re all sweaty?—”
“Exactly,” he says, hoisting her up so her legs wrap around his waist. “You can help me shower.”
His tone is entirely suggestive of how she might help him, and I get the distinct impression he doesn’t mean he wants her to soap his back.
“Sandro,” Evi hisses, glancing at me, cheeks flushed. “We have company.”
He barely spares me a glance—like I’m a chair, not a person—and keeps kissing her neck. “Aisling’s family now. She’ll survive.”
My throat tightens.
Family.
What a ridiculous word to apply to whatever the hell I am.
Evi bats at his shoulder, half-heartedly protesting. “I have hot chocolate?—”
“I’ll get you another after,” he says, already carrying her toward the hallway.
Evi clings to him, laughing, flushed, alive.
She turns her head and flashes me an apologetic, conspiratorial smile that says sorry—not sorry.
Then they disappear as the kitchen door swings shut.
Silence crashes back in like a wave.
I sit there, staring at the door and the empty space they left behind.
The air still seems thick with affection—possessive, reckless, real—and something heavy lodges in my chest.
I never dreamed I would witness that kind of hungry, unfiltered, shameless love in this house.
Not from one of the Chiaroscuro brothers.
But watching Sandro of all people be so overcome with devotion for his wife is almost enough to break me.
I don’t know if I’ll ever experience that kind of love in my lifetime.