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Melania's breathing slows against my chest, her body going slack as sleep finally claims her. I hold her close, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her ribs beneath my arm. Her hair spills across my bicep and soft strands catch on the rough calluses of my fingers.
Three hours. We've been tangled in each other for three fucking hours and I still want more. But she needs rest more than I need satisfaction.
I trace the curve of her spine with my fingertips, careful not to wake her. Her skin is marked with evidence of my possession—faint bruises forming where my fingers dug into her hips, a reddened patch on her throat where my hand had claimedher. She'll wear my marks tomorrow, hidden beneath whatever clothes she chooses, but we'll both know they're there.
I know what this was—at least partly. She needed to feel something other than the horror of pulling that trigger. Needed to replace the image of death with something primal and alive. Not that she didn't want me—the chemistry between us has been building since I first saw her in that wedding dress—but tonight's urgency came from somewhere darker.
I've seen it before. The desperate need to fuck away the memory of your first kill. To prove you're still human after taking a life.
But unlike the empty encounters I've had after bloody nights, this was something else entirely. Something I haven't felt before—not with Violet, not with anyone.
Melania shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I don't understand before settling again. Her hand rests on my chest, right above my heart, her mother's ring cool against my skin. Even asleep, she seeks connection.
Then a realization hits me with unexpected force: I'm not leaving her. She's mine now, whether she fully comprehends it yet or not.
Unless in the morning she tells me to fuck off.
That's the one condition I'll respect. If she looks me in the eye and says she doesn't want this—doesn't want me—I'll let her walk away. I'm a possessive bastard but I won't keep someone who doesn't want to be kept.
But until then? She's mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to keep safe from the monsters who want to use her as a pawn in their sick games.
I pull the sheet over her naked body, shielding her from the cool air.
I wait until her breathing deepens, each exhale a warm puff against my chest. Time to move. Someone—probably Damiano—texted twenty minutes ago. I need to check it.
Carefully, I slide my arm from beneath her head, replacing it with a pillow. She stirs but doesn't wake. One leg free from our tangle, then the other. The mattress shifts as I ease my weight off it.
Almost clear.
Her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength. "Don't," she murmurs, eyes still closed.
I freeze, torn between duty and the unexpected pull I feel toward her. I grab the phone, checking quickly if it's important.
Get some rest and we'll talk tomorrow.
I put it back down and turn to Melania.
She tugs me back, wrapping her arms around my waist like I'm her fucking lifeline. Her face presses against my stomach, breath hot against my skin.
"Please," she whispers, voice cracking.
Then I feel it—wetness against my skin. She's crying in her sleep, silent tears tracking down her cheeks.
"Shh," I murmur, sliding back in beside her. "I'm here."
I pull her closer, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other draws soothing patterns on her spine. My lips press against her hair, breathing in the scent of a shampoo mixed with a uniquely-Melania aroma.
"You're safe," I whisper against her temple. "I've got you."
A moth flutters against the window, drawn to the bedside lamp I left on. It circles erratically, casting dancing shadows across her bare shoulder. I reach over and switch off the light, plunging the room into darkness save for the moonlight filtering through the blinds.
The need to protect her hits me with unexpected force—not just from Raymond or her father, but from everything. Themoth at the window. The shadows in the corner. The nightmares behind her eyelids. I want to build a fortress around her, keep her sheltered from anything that might cause her pain.
It's fucking ridiculous. I'm not that fucking type of man. What the hell has she done to me?
I drift through layers of sleep, pulled toward consciousness by the weight of a focused gaze. My eyelids flutter open to find a pair of dark eyes watching me—intense, unblinking. Alessio.
He lies beside me, head propped on one hand, studying my face like he's committing every detail to memory. The early morning light snags on his jaw, highlighting the sharp angles of his face.