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I can feel the eyes of the guards, even though they’re not saying anything. I know they’re probably laughing under their breath. They’re used to seeing me in suits, barking orders, commanding respect, not microwaving leftovers.

The fridge hums like a living thing, mocking me as I stare at the leftovers inside.

I pick up a few things, then move to the microwave, feeling like I’m being watched by every goddamn guard in this house.

As the microwave whirs to life, I look out the kitchen window, hoping I won’t be caught.

I can’t even make a meal without feeling like I’m going to be exposed.

A small part of me wants to laugh at how ridiculous this is, but it’s embarrassing.

The microwave beeps, and I grab the food, hurrying to assemble the tray. I wince as I hear the faint sound of footsteps outside the kitchen door. Of course, they’re watching me. As I walk toward the stairs, the guards stand straighter, their eyes shifting to me in silent surprise.

I reach the bedroom door, and Fioretta is waiting, her gaze flicking up just as I enter. She stands up eagerly, like she’s been waiting for this moment. She grabs the tray from my hands almost too quickly, her eyes wide with hunger, her excitement palpable.

She sits down cross-legged on the floor, and without any further hesitation, she starts eating.

Her movements are quick, almost frantic, like she hasn’t had a decent meal in ages.

She tears into it, not caring about manners.

The way her mouth moves, her eyes fixed on the food, is almost like she’s starved for something more than just sustenance.

But then, she looks up at me, crumbs on her lips, and something in me softens.

“Have you eaten?” she asks, her voice light, with a hint of sarcasm. “You’ve been cooped up in that study all day. Come on, sit and eat.”

For a second, I think about refusing, but the tension of the day presses down on me, and I sit down beside her, feeling the weight of my own awkwardness.

She doesn’t wait. She picks up some food, offers it to me like she’s feeding a child, and without thinking, I open my mouth. The moment I take a bite, I watch her, watching me. She smiles, her eyes still a little too bright, but the look on her face softens when I don’t pull away.

“Come here,” she says again, this time with more insistence, her hand reaching for more food.

I hesitate, and she guides my hand, gently feeding me, her fingers lightly brushing my lips as I eat slowly.

She continues to eat, talking between bites, her words flowing fast and unstoppable. “I’m starving. I barely ate today.”

I find myself watching her, my gaze softening. She looks vulnerable, but there’s something wild in her eyes that keeps me on edge. She’s eating like it’s the first real meal she’s had in weeks.

She wipes her mouth, and she wipes mine too. The touch is brief but gentle, and I’m surprised by how natural it feels. She talks as she does it, rambling about everything and nothing at all, her voice lifting and falling with each sentence.

I realize I’m listening. Really listening.

She eats the last bit of food, and when she finishes, she leans back against the bed, rubbing her stomach. “That was so good.” Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and she sighs with satisfaction. She stretches her arms, still lying back.

“I can’t move. These sheets are so soft,” she murmurs, almost to herself, her voice sleepy but not entirely relaxed.

“Stay here then,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I think too much about it. I stand and walk toward the closet, reaching for my shirt. The room is filled with the scent of food and her, and I feel a strange pull to just forget everything for a second.

I begin to unbutton my shirt slowly, my hands working the buttons, but the entire time, I’m aware of her watching me.

I feel her eyes on my back. The. I hear her stand and walk up to me.

I feel it—her fingers. Her touch is light on my shoulder blade, tracing the cross tattoo.

It’s so soft, it almost feels like a whisper.

My muscles tighten involuntarily, and I finally turn, my chest rising and falling with each breath.

Our eyes meet, and in the silence, I tower over her. She stands there, transfixed, her hand still lingering on the tattoo, her fingers moving lower, tracing the scar on my ribcage. I’m so aware of the touch, so in the moment, it feels like everything else in the room fades away.

She looks up at me, and I know what I need to say, but it feels so difficult to get the words out.

“If you don’t leave now…” I start, my voice low, almost a warning. “Whatever happens next, you’ll take responsibility for.”

Her lips curve up so slowly, like she’s savoring the moment. It’s a look I can’t quite decipher.

“I may not remember my name,” she says, her voice almost a whisper now, “but I remember how it feels to be owned—and I refuse.”

Her fingers caress my chin gently, and I feel the sensation like it’s etched into my skin. She slides her thumb along my lips, and I freeze for just a moment before I realize I’m reacting.

But before I can stop it, she pulls away, turning on her heel and walking out of the room without a word.

I look down at myself, and it’s impossible to ignore the surge of heat that’s still coiling in my body. I shake my head, trying to clear the fog.