“No.” His tone is lethargic, stripped of its usual steel. “But it’s only been a few hours. It’s still the middle of the night. You need more rest. We’ll discuss it in the morning.”
His hands slide to my hips, carefully guiding me back onto the bed.
“Please,” I beg. “I want to know.”
“And you will.” He stands, walks to the pillows, then pats the mattress in a silent command. “Once you’ve recovered.”
I hesitate, my body dead mass, my eyelids effectively sandpaper. He’s right; I need more sleep. But?—
“You’ll feel better in the morning.” He pats the mattress again.
A lump forms in my throat, each breath seeming to make it grow. “What about Quinn?” I drag myself toward him and crash against the pillow.
“She’s fine.” He drags the covers over me, his hand skimming through my hair in tender farewell.
“And Nyra?”
His lips kick in a threadbare smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your cat is fine, too. There’s nothing to worry about.”
I force myself to nod. To believe. To let the anxiety and nervousness go for now. They’ll be waiting in the morning.
“Sleep,la mia rovina.” He leans down and places a kiss to my hairline. “You’re safe with me.”
Chapter
Thirty-Two
RAFFAEL
I hearIsla wake from the living room. The rustle of bedsheets. The flush of the toilet. The cascade of the shower’s spray.
She slept for seven hours after we spoke, but I didn’t catch a wink. I couldn’t. I stayed in the room, my thoughts held hostage by what she went through while the lingering effects of sedation had her knocked out cold.
She’d been confined. Interrogated. Pepper gassed. All because of my family.
My fucking father’s legacy.
I’d wanted to stay with her until she woke. To consume each unsettled whimper. But the longer I remained at her side, the harder the damage of my bloodline tore through me.
My resentment intensified.
The demand for change grew.
A cold shower hadn’t been the answer. Neither had coffee. Yet here I stand, downing my third mug, dressed in my usual suit, as if today is like any other, while I lean against the armrest of my sofa, staring through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the city skyline, pretending calm is a characteristic I still possess.
I bristle the moment she enters the room, her presence a balm I crave and a complication I can’t outrun.
She pads forward, her delicate frame drowned beneath one of my shirts, her feet bare against the tile—fragile and faultless in the same breath.
“Hi.” Her voice is small as she stops before me, hair damp and braided over one shoulder, smile faint and forced.
“Hey.” I ache to reach for her. To pull her close. Instead, I take another mouthful of coffee and pretend I’m not caught up cataloging the changes inflicted upon her—the dimming of that ruthless CEO confidence, the collapse of her razor-sharp posture.
She lowers her attention to my mug, staring at it. Studying.
No, she’s examining my knuckles. The swelling. The bruises.
She reaches out and runs the lightest touch over the broken skin. That’s all it takes, the briefest of contact, and everything inside me recalibrates to live and breathe for no other reason than to cherish her.