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I bury my face in her hair, breathing in her jasmine scent, and for now, I let myself feel it, this quiet, fragile thing we’ve made, knowing it’s a risk I might regret but can’t walk away from.
It’s a risk, a ledge I’m standing on, and though I know I might regret it, I can’t pull away, not yet. Her warmth seeps into me, her heartbeat a steady pulse against my chest, and I linger in the stillness, the world beyond this room fading, leaving only us, this moment, this bond I’m not ready to face.
Fina lies against me, her body warm and soft. She's quiet, except for her quick breaths, her head resting on my chest, her dark hair spilling across the sheets like a river of ink. The room is equally hushed, the lamplight casting gentle shadows over her skin, and I hold her, my arm around her shoulders, my fingers brushing her arm in slow, absent circles.
Her breath steadies and I bask in the quiet rhythm that calms the storm inside me. But I’m uneasy, too aware of how close we’ve become, how much of myself I’ve bared. Here, with her,I’ve let slip a tenderness that feels like a crack in my armor. She’s carrying my child, and that truth ties us together, but it also exposes me, makes me vulnerable, and I hate it, hate how it weakens me.
The silence wraps around us, heavy and intimate. I feel the weight of it, the way her body fits against mine, the way her heartbeat echoes in my chest. I want to pull away, to rebuild the walls I’ve let crumble, but her warmth holds me, a tether I’m not ready to break.
She shifts slightly, her breath catching, and I sense her stirring, the quiet moment stretching thin, like a thread about to snap. I keep my eyes on the ceiling, trying to anchor myself, but her presence is a tide, pulling me deeper into something I can’t control.
She lifts her head, slow and deliberate, her dark hair brushing my skin as she moves. Her green eyes find mine, curious, searching, and I feel my stomach knot, caught by the intensity of her gaze.
Her eyes linger, drifting upward, settling on the scar above my brow, the jagged mark I’ve carried for years. I tense, my breath hitching, as her finger rises, hesitant, then traces the scar, her touch light, almost reverent, but it burns, stirring memories I’ve buried deep. Her finger lingers, and I’m uncomfortable, exposed, my skin prickling under her scrutiny, a raw edge I don’t want her to see.
“Enzo,” she says, her voice low, softer than I’ve heard, a tone that’s too close, too intimate, like she’s reaching for something I’ve locked away. “How’d you get it?”
Her question is simple, a quiet probe, but it’s a blade, slicing into places I’ve sealed shut, scars that run deeper than flesh. My body stiffens, my jaw clenching, and I feel the walls rising, cold and unyielding. I don’t share my past, not with her, not with anyone. She’s my wife, the mother of my unborn child, but that doesn’t give her the right to know me, to see the parts I’ve hidden. I’ve already bared too much, and I hate it, this tenderness that’s crept in like a shadow.
I sit up, pulling away, my voice hard as I meet her gaze. “You being pregnant doesn’t mean you get to dig into my life, Fina.”
The words are sharp, a lash meant to push her back, to rebuild the distance I need. Her eyes flicker with hurt, a quick, raw wound she tries to mask, but I see it, the way her lips press tight, the way her hand falls to the sheet, clutching it to her chest. Her pride is a shield, but I know her, see the pain in the stiff set of her shoulders, the way she looks away, her silence louder than any retort.
The hurt I’ve caused twists in my chest, a dull ache I don’t want to feel, but I don’t apologize. I can’t. Vulnerability is a weakness, and I’ve already given more than I should.
She sits up now, her movements slow and deliberate as she pulls the sheet higher, her eyes fixed on some point beyond me, and I hate it, hate how her silence makes me feel like I’ve failed her. The air between us is thick, heavy with things we won’t say, and I’m trapped in it, caught between wanting to reach for her and needing to push her away.
I’m not the man who bends, who softens, but Fina causes me to question my existence, the very essence of my being. I open my mouth, ready to say something cold, to seal the distance, but my cellphone vibrates on the nightstand, a sharp buzz that cuts through the tension.
I grab it, seeing Matteo’s name, and answer, my voice clipped. “What?” His voice crackles through. It's urgent, rough. “Enzo, we’ve got trouble. Need you now.”
I glance at Fina, her eyes still turned away, her silence a weight I carry. “Stay here,” I say, my voice flat, and she doesn’t respond, just grips the sheet tighter, her pride holding her together. I know the damage I've done. She's silent, not saying anything, not whipping out a sharp retort from her armory of unending words.
I stand, the call a lifeline, pulling me from this mess of feelings I can’t face. I dress quickly, my movements sharp, my mind shifting to whatever crisis waits, but her presence lingers like a pull I can’t ignore.
I move to the door, my hand gripping the knob, and pause, glancing back. Fina’s watching me now, her green eyes sharp but raw, brimming with a pain I put there, a hurt that cuts deeper than I meant. Guilt surges, a heavy, gnawing thing in my chest, but I force it down, burying it where it can’t touch me. I step out, the door clicking shut, and head down the hall, Matteo’s call pulling me forward, urgent, demanding.
Her pain trails me, a weight I can’t shake, heavy as the silence she left behind. Those eyes, fierce even in their hurt, burn in my mind, a mark I’ve etched with my own words. I know it’ll cost me, this moment where I turned away when she reached for me.
22
Serafina
Two weeks have passed since Enzo slammed the door on me, his words a string of ice slicing through my attempt to reach him. That night, his scar under my fingertips, I saw a crack in his armor I'd never seen before, but he sealed it shut before I could properly assess it, leaving me raw.
Now, our mornings are a ritual of hollow courtesies. His “How are you, Fina?” catches me off guard every day he asks. It's like he's mad at me for thawing the coldness of his heart, breaking his walls, but at the same time, he's not exactly mad at me. His voice is always low whenever he asks, almost gentle. I could delude myself into thinking he's asking because he truly cares for me, but I know it’s the baby he’s thinking of, not me. I’m just the vessel carrying his heir, and it stings more than I want to admit.
Last week, he called a doctor to check on me without a word, like I’m some fragile thing he owns. It's not the fact that he called a doctor to check on me so much as the fact that he did so without informing me first that had my hackles rise. I'd lit into him afterwards when the doctor left, my voice sharp as I'd told him I’m not his property and he has no right to do things without conferring with me first. He'd stood there, jaw tight, as I stormed out, my pride the only thing that kept me together.
The hurt festers like a sore wound. It's a quiet ache I can’t shake. I shouldn't be this mad over his insistence at keeping me apart. I should be relieved even at this detachment. He's my enemy. I despise him. I want no knowledge of his past. Yet here I am, two weeks after, still angry.
I know what it is. It'd dawned on me in the cold light of day the next morning after that night. I'd shoved it away, thinking if I didn't give too much importance to it, the scales would fall away from my eyes, and I'd realize what I actually feel for my husband is lust, not love. But the feeling persists. It gnaws at me, leaving no room for doubt as to how I feel.
I’m falling for him. I'm falling in love with my husband. The realization hit like a punch, stealing my breath. Enzo, my enemy, the man who claimed me in a deal to wage peace has slipped under my skin. I'd been conscious, allowing his touch, his rare softness, to undo me, peel me open until I'm naked, my feelings laid bare.
I hate it. I hate how my heart betrays me, but I can’t deny it. I’m shaken, my resolve fraying. I don’t crumble, ever. But the hurt at his withdrawal nudges me, and I know I have to lash out. I'vebeen stupid enough to let affection get in the way of what was a calculated move to keep the peace between both families.
He needs to feel some of the angst I feel, so I go in search of him, deciding to confront him. He won't love me back. The only thing I can hope on is his respect, and I'm damn well going to demand it, not just for me but for the child I carry. He doesn’t get to treat me like a pawn, not anymore.