Page 6

KLEAH

FOR A BLISSFUL MOMENT between sleep and wakefulness, I forget where I am, who I am now.

Then reality floods back. The safe house. The marriage. Gabriele.

My husband.

The title still feels foreign, surreal. I'm married to a man I've known for mere days. A man who moves like a predator and speaks like a philosopher. A man who built me a fire and made me tea from his grandmother's recipe.

I rise slowly, adjusting to this new life one careful movement at a time. The shower in the en-suite bathroom is a luxurious affair, with multiple jets and steam options I don't fully understand. The towels are thick, soft, absurdly expensive. Everything in this house speaks of wealth carefully applied, luxury without ostentation.

Dressed in another of the outfits that mysteriously appeared in the closet—casual but perfectly tailored to my body—I make my way toward the kitchen, drawn by the scent of coffee and something baking.

I don't expect to find Gabriele there, sleeves rolled up, dusting flour from his hands. The domesticity of the scene stops me in the doorway, momentarily speechless.

He looks up, catching my surprise. "Good morning."

"You bake?" I don't mean to sound quite so astonished.

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. "Occasionally. My grandmother insisted it was a necessary skill."

"Your grandmother sounds like a remarkable woman."

"She was." He gestures toward a fresh pot of coffee. "Help yourself."

I move to the counter, hyperaware of his presence as I pour a cup. The kitchen feels both spacious and intimate, morning light streaming through windows that frame the ocean beyond.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, sliding a tray of something that looks like pastry into the oven.

"Yes, actually. Better than I expected." I take a sip of coffee—perfectly brewed, of course. "And you?"

"Well enough."

I'm not sure I believe him. There's a stillness about him this morning, a watchfulness that suggests a mind working overtime. He looks rested enough, but there's something in his eyes—a distance, a calculation.

"What are you making?" I ask, nodding toward the oven.

" Sfogliatelle ."

"Another one of your grandmother's recipes?"

" Sì ."

It's my first time to hear him speak Italian. It's just one word, but I like it. Enough to have my toes curl hard.

"I'll need to remember to thank her when we meet in heaven."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "It must be nice to be so assured of salvation."

"It's a free gift," I say lightly. "You just have to accept it."

Mm.

I let it go, knowing that this is one of those things I mustn't push. It's a gentle dance we're doing, this careful exchange of small truths, and it feels too delicate to rush.

Instead, I move to the windows, gazing out at the ocean beyond. The storm has left everything washed clean, the sky an impossible blue, the water below glittering like crushed diamonds.

"I can't get over how beautiful this place is."

"It serves its purpose." His voice is closer than I expected, and I turn to find him standing beside me, his own gaze directed outward. "The isolation provides security."

"Is that all you see when you look at it? A security feature?"

Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps, at the directness of my question. "No," he admits after a moment. "Not all."

He doesn't elaborate, and I don't press. Instead, we stand side by side, watching the waves crash against the rocks below. There's something peaceful about sharing silence with him, this quiet morning moment suspended between the chaos of yesterday and the uncertainty of tomorrow.

The timer chimes, breaking the spell. Gabriele moves to retrieve the pastries, and I return to my coffee, settling on a stool at the kitchen island.

"So..." I look at him ruefully. "I really don't know what to do with my time."

Dark eyes gleam at me in amusement. "Would you prefer a schedule? '8 AM: Breakfast. 9 AM: Avoid assassination. 10 AM: Coffee break'?"

The unexpected flash of humor catches me off guard, and I can't help the laugh that escapes me.

"I like that."

"What?"

"The sound of your laugh."

"Oh." I fight off a blush. Who knew former mob bosses could be such a flirt?

Gabriele places a pastry on a plate and slides it toward me. "Try it."

The sfogliatelle is still warm, the shell crisp and flaky, the filling sweet but not cloying. I make an appreciative sound that's embarrassingly close to a moan, and Gabriele's eyes darken slightly.

"Good?" he asks, his voice a shade deeper than before.

"Incredible." I take another bite, savoring the complex flavors. "Your grandmother would be proud."

We eat in companionable silence, the pastries disappearing quickly. I'm licking sugar from my fingers when I catch Gabriele watching me, his gaze intent in a way that makes my skin prickle with unfamiliar heat.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

"You enjoy simple pleasures," he observes. "Without restraint or pretense."

I'm not sure if it's a compliment or an observation. "Is that a bad thing?"

"I find it refreshing, actually."

The moment stretches between us, charged with something I'm not ready to name. I look away first, gathering our plates as an excuse to move, to break whatever spell was building.

"We should discuss practicalities," Gabriele says as I rinse the dishes. "Your safety, your training, how we present ourselves to the world."

Reality crashes back in. This isn't a romantic honeymoon, a getting-to-know-you period between newlyweds. This is a strategic alliance, a marriage of protection.

"Of course," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Where do we start?"

"Security protocols. The house system, emergency procedures, communication channels." He gestures toward the hallway. "In my office?"

I follow him through the house to a room I hadn't explored yesterday. Unlike the rest of the property, with its airy, open design, the office is contained, almost fortified. The windows are narrower, the furnishings more utilitarian. A large desk dominates one side, multiple monitors glowing with data.

Gabriele spends the next hour walking me through the security systems—panic buttons hidden throughout the house, emergency exits, safe rooms I hadn't even known existed. He shows me how to access the secured communication system, how to recognize signs of surveillance or intrusion, how to use the basic security features of the various devices now at my disposal.

It's overwhelming, this crash course in paranoia. By the time we finish, my head is spinning with codes and protocols and contingency plans.

"This is a lot," I admit, sinking into a chair across from his desk.

"It's necessary." His voice is gentle despite the unyielding words. "Your life may depend on remembering these details."

"I know." I rub my temples, trying to organize the flood of information. "It's just... yesterday I was making wax seals in my little shop. Today I'm memorizing panic room access codes and emergency extraction protocols."

"It's an adjustment." He leans against the desk, arms crossed. "But you're handling it well."

I look up at him, struck again by how impossibly handsome he is—all chiseled angles and controlled power. A man designed by nature to inspire both fear and attraction.

"Am I?" I ask, suddenly uncertain. "Handling it well?"

Something shifts in his expression, a softening I'm starting to recognize. "Better than most would in your position."

"I don't feel like I have much choice."

"We always have choices, Kleah." His voice is surprisingly gentle. "They're just not always good ones."

I nod slowly, understanding what he means. My choices now are limited, constrained by danger and necessity, but they still exist. I chose to marry him rather than face the threat alone. I choose, each moment, how to respond to this new reality.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

"For what?"

"For making this feel like a partnership, not a capture."

He studies me for a long moment, something unreadable in those dark, dark eyes of his. "It is a partnership. Unequal in some ways, perhaps, but a partnership nonetheless."

The sincerity in his voice touches something in me, a tender spot I didn't know was there. This dangerous man, this former criminal, treats my agency with more respect than some supposedly "good" men I've known.

"What about you?" I ask suddenly. "What do you get out of this arrangement, beyond repaying your debt to my brother?"

"Security," he answers without hesitation. "Stability in territories where Viktor's absence has created uncertainty. Your blood carries weight, whether you want it to or not."

"So I'm a political asset."

"Among other things."

"What other things?"

His gaze holds mine, steady and unreadable. "Time will tell."

Before I can press further, his phone buzzes. He glances at it, his expression shifting immediately to something harder, more focused.

"We have confirmed surveillance on the property," he says, his voice all business now. "Nothing immediate, but we should accelerate your training."

Just like that, the moment is gone, replaced by the harsh reality of our situation. I straighten, pushing aside the strange intimacy of our earlier conversation.

"What do I need to do?"

"Self-defense basics, for now. Physical training, then weapons."

I must look as alarmed as I feel, because he adds, "Precautionary only. If all goes well, you'll never need to use any of it."

But he can't guarantee that, and we both know it.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of activity. Gabriele becomes an exacting teacher, putting me through basic self-defense moves in a gym I hadn't even realized the house contained. He's careful with me, always explaining before touching, always demonstrating before asking me to try. But he's also relentless, making me repeat movements until they begin to feel natural.

By evening, every muscle in my body aches. I've never been particularly athletic—my craft requires dexterity and patience, not physical power—and the training has pushed me well beyond my usual limits.

"You did well," Gabriele says as we finish, handing me a bottle of water. "Better than I expected."

"You mean for someone who spends most of her time hunched over a workbench?"

"You need not be too harsh on yourself."

Who knew former mob bosses could also be this nice?

I take a huge gulp of water and wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "Will it be enough? If something happens?"

"It's a start." He's careful not to lie to me, not to offer false reassurances. "Combined with the security measures in place, it improves your odds significantly."

"But not to one hundred percent."

"Nothing is ever one hundred percent." His eyes meet mine, serious now. "But I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. That is absolute."

The conviction in his voice sends an unexpected shiver through me—not fear, but something else entirely. Something warm and unfamiliar.

"You should rest. Tomorrow will be demanding as well."

He's right, of course. My body screams for recovery, for a hot shower and a soft bed. But something keeps me standing there, reluctant to end this strange day.

"Will you join me for dinner later?" I ask impulsively. "I could cook again. Or we could order something."

He studies me for a moment, as if trying to decipher my motivation. "If you wish."

"I do." The words come out more emphatic than I intended. "I mean, we're in this together, right? We should at least get to know each other beyond security protocols and self-defense techniques."

A hint of amusement touches his expression. "A reasonable point."

"So... dinner? At seven?"

He inclines his head slightly. "I'll look forward to it."

In my suite, I stand under the hot shower until my muscles begin to relax, the ache transforming from sharp to dull. The bathroom fills with steam, fogging the mirrors, creating a cocoon of warmth and privacy.

As I dry off, I catch a glimpse of myself in the clearing mirror—flushed from the heat, hair damp around my face, eyes bright with some emotion I can't quite name. I look... different. Changed, somehow, by these few extraordinary days.

I dress carefully for dinner, selecting a simple but elegant outfit from those provided—soft gray pants and a silk blouse in deep blue. Not formal, but a step up from the workout clothes I've been in all day. A small application of makeup, a touch of perfume. Normal things, feminine things, in a situation that's anything but normal.

Gabriele is already in the kitchen when I arrive, opening a bottle of wine. He's changed as well, into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that makes his dark eyes seem even more striking by contrast.

"I ordered in," he says, gesturing to an array of containers on the counter. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all." The food smells amazing—something Italian, rich with garlic and herbs.

"It's from a place I trust." He pours two glasses of wine, handing one to me. "The chef is an old friend."

"You have friends?" The question slips out before I can stop it, more teasing than I intended.

Instead of taking offense, Gabriele actually smiles—a small, genuine curve of his lips that transforms his face. "A few. Carefully selected."

"I'm honored to be among them," I say lightly, raising my glass in a mock toast.

"Are we friends, Kleah?" The question is serious despite his light tone.

I consider this, taking a sip of wine to buy time. "I'm not sure what we are," I admit finally. "Husband and wife by law. Protector and protected by circumstance. Friends... maybe we're working on it."

He nods, accepting this complex truth without argument. "A fair assessment."

We serve ourselves from the containers—handmade pasta with a rich sauce, crusty bread, a salad of bitter greens and sweet tomatoes. The food is exceptional, the wine perfectly paired. For a few moments, we eat in companionable silence, appreciating the simple pleasure of a good meal.

"Tell me something about yourself," I say eventually. "Something I wouldn't know from researching you."

He considers this, twirling pasta on his fork with elegant precision. "I play the piano."

Of all the things I might have expected, this wasn't one of them. "Well?"

"Well enough."

"Classical?"

"Primarily. Some jazz."

I try to picture it—this dangerous man with deadly hands creating music instead of violence. It's a surprisingly compelling image.

"Will you play for me sometime?" I ask.

Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps, or pleasure at my interest. "If you wish."

"I do." I take another sip of wine, feeling warmth spread through me—from the alcohol, from the food, from his company. "Your turn."

"My turn?"

"To ask me something. Something you wouldn't know from your research."

He studies me over the rim of his wineglass, considering. "What made you choose wax seals as your craft?"

The question is unexpected, thoughtful in a way that catches me off guard. Most people ask about the business aspect, the practicalities. Not the why.

"The permanence," I answer honestly. "The way something so fluid can become so fixed, so defining. The moment of transformation from liquid to solid, capturing an impression that will last."

His eyes hold mine, intent and unreadable. "A tangible mark of identity."

"Yes." He understands in a way few people do. "And there's something intimate about it, too. The act of sealing something—a letter, a package, a promise. It's a deliberate choice to make private things sacred."

The words hang between us, charged with meaning neither of us fully acknowledges. We're talking about wax and seals, yes, but also about boundaries, about trust, about the careful disclosure of what matters.

We finish dinner slowly, trading questions and answers that gradually become more personal, more revealing. I learn that he speaks five languages, that he dislikes the taste of cinnamon, that he once broke his arm jumping from a balcony on a dare when he was twelve.

In return, I tell him about my first art teacher who recognized my talent for detailed work, about my childhood dream of becoming a restoration artist, about the sea glass collection I've maintained since I was eight.

It's strange how normal it feels, this getting-to-know-you dinner with a man I married yesterday. Strange, and yet somehow right.

We move to the library after dinner, drawn to the comfort of the space we shared last night. Gabriele builds another fire, the familiar ritual soothing in its ordinariness. I curl into the same window seat, watching the play of firelight across his face as he works.

"Can I ask you something personal?" I say when he's settled in the armchair nearby, the fire crackling between us.

"You can ask," he replies. "I may not answer."

"Do you miss it? The danger, the power?"

He considers this with the same deliberate care he seems to bring to everything. "I miss the clarity," he says finally. "When you are famiglia , roles were defined. Enemies known. Objectives clear."

"And now?"

"Now everything is...complicated, and most times, unnecessarily so." His eyes meet mine across the space between us. "But then there are things which are simply harder to categorize. Or control."

"Like me?"

" Sì ."

The honesty in his answer touches something in me, a place that recognizes truth when it's offered. Whatever Gabriele Bronzetti is—criminal, protector, my unlikely husband—he doesn't lie to me. That alone sets him apart from most people I've known.

"It's getting late," Gabriele says eventually, his voice low in the quiet room. "You should rest."

What if I don't want to?

His gaze narrows, and my breath catches. It's as if heard me even though I haven't said a word.

"What do you want, Kleah?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with possibilities neither of us has voiced. What do I want? Safety, yes. Understanding, certainty, a way forward through this maze I've found myself in.

But in this moment, with firelight playing across his face and wine warming my blood, I want something else entirely.

"I want—" I start, then stop, unsure how to articulate the confusing tangle of emotions inside me.

"Tell me," he says, his voice gentle but insistent.

"I want to not be afraid." The words come out in a rush. "Not of the people hunting me, not of this new life, not of... touch."

His expression shifts, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Your foster father," he says quietly.

I nod, throat tight. Of course he knows. He probably knows everything about me, every sordid detail of my past.

"He took something from you," Gabriele continues, his voice careful but not pitying. "Trust. Safety. The ability to be seen without being violated."

"Yes." The word is barely a whisper.

He rises from his chair, moving to kneel before me, close but not touching. "What he did was unforgivable."

"I know."

"And what Biancardi did to him in return was justice."

I look up at that, surprised.

"Your brother was furious when he realized he was too late from saving you. But he made sure that your foster father would not be able to do the same thing again."

"W-What exactly did Viktor do?" Please, please, please don't tell me he killed Richard. I just don't want that kind of death on my conscience.

"Your brother was surprisingly merciful—"

Oh, thank God.

"—and simply had his men gouge Richard's eyes out."

I think I'm going to be sick.

"You asked for honesty," he reminds me. "Always."

"Yes." I meet his gaze directly. "I did."

Something shifts in the air between us, a tension building that has nothing to do with danger and everything to do with proximity, with intention, with the fire-lit intimacy of this moment.

"What else do you want, Kleah?" Gabriel is still kneeling before me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the subtle cologne he wears.

Fears cloud my mind. Urging me to take a step back and slow things down. But something in me—something new and unfamiliar and surprisingly insistent—wants more.

"I want to know what it feels like," I whisper. "To be touched by someone I choose. Someone I trust."

Heat flashes in his dark, dark eyes. "Are you asking what I think you're asking?"

"Yes." No hesitation, no qualification. Just certainty.

"We agreed," he reminds me, though I can see the restraint in every line of his body. "You said I couldn't touch you unless you asked."

"I'm asking."

For a moment, he simply watches me, searching my face for any sign of hesitation or fear. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifts his hand toward my face.

"May I?"

I nod, heart racing.

His fingers brush my cheek, so gently I might almost imagine it. A whisper of contact, warm and careful, tracing along my jaw, down to my neck, back up to my temple. Slowly, so slowly, giving me every chance to pull away.

I don't.

Instead, I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed as his thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, the word barely audible.

I open my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that should frighten me but somehow doesn't. His hand cradles my face now, strong and sure, and I feel anchored by his touch rather than threatened.

"More?" he asks, and I understand he's giving me control, letting me set the pace and boundaries of whatever this is becoming.

"Yes," I breathe.

He shifts closer, still kneeling before me, his free hand coming to rest lightly on my knee. "I can stop anytime," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Just say the word."

"I know."

And I do know, with a certainty that surprises me. This dangerous man, this former criminal with blood on his hands, would stop instantly if I asked. Would never push past my boundaries, never take what I didn't freely give.

It's an intoxicating kind of safety.

His hand on my knee slides upward, just slightly, warm through the fabric of my pants. "What do you want me to do, Kleah?"

The question—direct, honest, empowering—sends a shiver through me. "I don't know," I admit. "I've never..."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "Never?"

I shake my head, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "No."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, yes, but also a fierce kind of tenderness I wouldn't have expected. "Then we go slowly," he says, his voice gentle but certain. "Only what feels right to you."

His hand moves from my face to my hair, fingers threading through the strands with careful appreciation. "So soft," he murmurs.

The simple touch sends warmth cascading through me, a pleasure so pure and uncomplicated it takes me by surprise. No one has ever touched me like this—with reverence, with attention, with absolute presence.

"Gabriele," I whisper, his name a question and an answer all at once.

"I'm here." His eyes hold mine, steady and sure. "Right here with you."

His hand on my knee moves slightly, a question in the touch. I nod, granting permission, and he slides it higher, fingers tracing patterns through the fabric of my pants. Nothing demanding, nothing frightening—just connection, just warmth.

"I want to show you something different," he says quietly. "If you'll let me."

"Yes," I breathe, the word barely audible.

He leans forward, slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. His lips brush my forehead, a touch so gentle it's almost not there. Then my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.

"May I kiss you properly?" he asks, his breath warm against my skin.

Instead of answering, I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his in a gesture of trust that surprises us both.

The kiss is tender, unhurried—a meeting rather than a taking. His lips are warm, firm, moving against mine with careful attention. No demand, no pressure, just the sweet exploration of something new.

When he pulls back, I feel dazed, my heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

"Okay?" he asks, studying my face.

"More than okay," I whisper.

A smile touches his lips, transforming his face into something so beautiful it makes my breath catch. "Good."

His hands frame my face now, thumbs stroking my cheeks with gentle appreciation. "You're exquisite," he murmurs. "Perfect."

The words send a flush of heat through me, a pleasure that's as much emotional as physical. No one has ever looked at me the way he does now—as if I'm precious, as if I'm worth cherishing.

"I want..." I start, then falter, unsure how to ask for what I don't fully understand.

"Tell me," he encourages, voice low and gentle. "Anything."

"I want to feel good," I admit, the words barely a whisper. "To know what it's supposed to be like."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something darker, more primal. "I can give you that," he says, voice rough with restraint. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

He studies me for a long moment, as if memorizing every detail of my face. Then, with deliberate care, he rises to his feet, extending his hand to me.

"Not here," he says. "Somewhere more comfortable."

I take his hand, letting him lead me from the library to a part of the house I haven't explored—the west wing, his territory. We pass through an elegant sitting room to a doorway that must lead to his bedroom.

He pauses there, turning to me. "Are you certain, Kleah? We can stop right now, no explanation needed."

The consideration in his voice, the genuine concern in his eyes, confirms what I already know: I trust this man. Despite everything, despite the suddenness of this connection, I trust him in a way I've never trusted anyone.

"I'm certain," I say, meeting his gaze directly. "I want this. I want you."

Something flashes in his eyes—hunger, yes, but also something deeper, more complex. "Then come with me," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine.

His bedroom is spacious but not ostentatious, dominated by a large bed with simple, elegant lines. The colors are neutral—grays and blues and warm woods—the overall effect one of masculine sophistication without showiness.

He leads me to the edge of the bed, then stops, his hands coming to rest lightly on my shoulders. "We go at your pace," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "You set the boundaries. You say stop, and we stop. Immediately. No questions, no hesitation."

I nod, touched by his care, by the way he puts my comfort above all else. "I understand."

"Good." His fingers trace along my collarbone, a feather-light touch that makes me shiver. "I'm going to touch you now. Just touch. Nothing more unless you ask for it."

"Yes," I breathe, anticipation coiling low in my belly.

His hands move to the top button of my blouse, pausing there. "May I?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

With deliberate slowness, he begins to unbutton my blouse, his eyes never leaving mine. There's nothing rushed about his movements, nothing demanding—just careful attention, absolute presence.

When the last button gives way, he slides the silk from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. I stand before him in my bra, feeling strangely unself-conscious despite my inexperience. Something about the way he looks at me—with appreciation rather than assessment—makes me feel beautiful, desirable.

"Lovely," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the curve of my shoulder, down my arm, back up to the strap of my bra. "So lovely."

His touch is electric, sending warmth cascading through me with each careful exploration. He traces the lines of my collarbones, the hollow of my throat, the curve of my waist, all with the same reverent attention.

"Still okay?" he asks, his voice rougher now.

"Yes," I whisper. "Please don't stop."

A smile touches his lips, darkly sensual. "I won't."

His hands move to my waist, fingers tracing the waistband of my pants. "These next?"

I nod, breath catching as he slowly unfastens them, sliding them down my legs until I can step out of them. Now I stand before him in just my underwear, pulse racing with a combination of nervousness and excitement.

"Beautiful," he says again, and this time I believe him. The hunger in his eyes, the way his breath catches when he looks at me—it makes me feel powerful in a way I've never experienced.

He steps back slightly, giving me space. "Lie down," he suggests, gesturing to the bed. "Get comfortable."

I do as he asks, settling against the pillows, watching as he removes his sweater to reveal a fitted t-shirt beneath. His body is magnificent—broad shoulders, defined chest, the subtle play of muscles under olive skin. He keeps his pants on, another consideration that touches me deeply.

He stretches out beside me, propped on one elbow, his free hand hovering over my midriff. "I'm going to touch you," he says, his voice a low murmur. "Tell me if anything doesn't feel good."

I nod, anticipation making it hard to speak.

His hand settles on my stomach, warm and solid, before beginning a slow exploration upward. He traces the curve of my ribs, the valley between my breasts, the line of my collarbone, all with the same careful attention he's shown since the beginning.

When his fingers brush the swell of my breast above my bra, I gasp, the sensation sharper, more intense than I expected.

He pauses immediately. "Too much?"

"No," I breathe. "No, it's... good."

A smile curves his lips, knowing and gentle. "It gets better."

His fingers trace the edge of my bra, following the lace where it meets skin. The teasing touch makes me arch slightly, seeking more contact without knowing exactly what I'm asking for.

"Patience," he murmurs, amusement coloring his voice. "We have all night."

All night. The promise in those words sends heat pooling low in my belly.

His hand slides beneath me, finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. "May I?"

"Yes," I whisper, beyond hesitation now.

With a flick of his fingers, the clasp gives way. He draws the straps down my arms, removing the garment with gentle efficiency. Then he simply looks at me, his eyes darkening with appreciation.

"Perfect," he says, voice rough with restraint.

Before I can feel self-conscious, his hand is there, cupping my breast with exquisite gentleness. His thumb brushes across my nipple, and I gasp at the sensation—sharp and sweet and utterly new.

"Good?" he asks again, watching my face intently.

"Yes," I breathe. "So good."

He repeats the caress, more deliberately this time, and my eyes flutter closed as pleasure courses through me. I've never felt anything like this—this focused attention, this careful building of sensation.

"Open your eyes," he rasps out. "I want to see you."

I do as he asks, meeting his gaze as he continues his gentle exploration. There's something intensely intimate about it—not just the physical contact, but the way he watches me, learning my responses, gauging my pleasure.

His hand moves lower, tracing patterns across my stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the edge of my underwear. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he says, his voice low and controlled.

"Don't stop," I whisper.

His smile is darkly sensual, a promise of things to come. "As you wish."

His fingers trace along the elastic of my underwear, teasing rather than taking. The anticipation builds, a delicious tension coiling tighter with each passing moment.

"Gabriele," I breathe, his name a plea I don't fully understand.

"I know," he soothes. "I know what you need."

His hand slips lower, cupping me through the fabric of my underwear. Even that slight pressure is enough to make me gasp, my hips lifting instinctively to meet his touch.

"Sensitive," he observes, pleasure evident in his voice. "Responsive."

He continues to touch me through the fabric, building a rhythm that has me panting, chasing a sensation I've never felt before. It's good—so good—but somehow not enough.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for.

He understands. His fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear, drawing them slowly down my legs. Now I'm completely naked before him, vulnerable in a way I've never been with anyone.

But I don't feel afraid. Not with Gabriele looking at me like I'm precious, like I'm beautiful, like I'm worthy of the care he's taking.

"You're exquisite," he whispers, his hand returning to my thigh, tracing patterns on the sensitive skin there. "A work of art."

His touch moves higher, and I find myself parting my legs without being asked, an instinctive response to the pleasure he's building in me. When his fingers find their target, I cry out, shocked by the intensity of sensation.

"Too much?"

I shake my head, restlessly. "N-No. It's...more."

Gabriele smiles, understanding what I can barely articulate. "More it is."

His fingers begin to move again, more deliberately now, finding a rhythm that has me writhing against his hand. He watches my face the entire time, gauging my responses, adjusting his touch to maximize my pleasure.

"That's it," my husband growls as my breath comes faster, as tension builds low in my belly. "Let go for me, Kleah. Let me see you."

I don't fully understand what he's asking, but my body does. The tension builds and builds, a coiling pressure that seems impossible to contain. And then suddenly it breaks, pleasure washing over me in waves so intense I cry out, my back arching off the bed, my hand clutching at his arm.

Gabriele doesn't stop, his fingers continuing their gentle movements, drawing out my pleasure until I'm trembling, oversensitive, gasping for him to stop.

Only then does he withdraw his hand, bringing it to his lips in a gesture so erotic it makes me blush despite everything we've just done.

"Beautiful," Gabriele croons. "So beautiful."

I lie there, dazed, my body humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. I've never felt anything like it—this boneless satisfaction, this profound release.

My dazed eyes meet his, and I have this sudden need to make him feel the same. To reciprocate. But when I try reaching for him, Gabriele catches my hand and brings it instead to his lips for a gentle kiss.

"Not tonight," he says, his voice gentle but firm. "Tonight was for you."

"But I want—"

"I know." His smile is tender despite the hunger still evident in his eyes. "And I want that, too. But not yet. Not until you're sure."

GAbrIELE

She sleeps in my arms, trusting and vulnerable, her breathing deep and even. Her naked body curves against mine, skin like silk beneath my fingers, hair spilling across my chest.

I didn't expect this. Didn't plan for it. Didn't even allow myself to think it might happen.

Yet here she is, my unlikely wife, sleeping in my bed after I've shown her pleasure for the first time.

The knowledge that I'm the first to touch her like this—the only one—awakens something primal and possessive in me. Something I've never felt for any other woman, in any other circumstance.

Mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to cherish.

These thoughts are dangerous, a complication I can't afford. This marriage is strategic, practical—a measure to ensure her safety, to honor my debt to Viktor. It should not involve this tangle of emotion, this fierce tenderness that's taken root inside me.

And yet here we are.

She stirs slightly in her sleep, her hand curling against my chest. Even unconscious, she seeks contact, connection. It's remarkable, given her history, given the violation she suffered. That she can trust anyone, let alone me, with her body, with her pleasure...

It humbles me in a way I didn't expect.

I look down at her sleeping face, peaceful in repose, lips slightly parted, lashes dark against her cheeks. She's lovely—not in the calculated, artificial way of women I've known before, but in a genuine, unguarded way that's far more compelling.

And she's mine. At least for now, at least while the danger persists.

What happens after? When the threat is neutralized, when she no longer needs my protection? Will she stay? Would I want her to?

Questions without answers, complications I didn't foresee. Best not to dwell on them now, not when they might distract me from the immediate goal: keeping her safe.

I ease away from her carefully, not wanting to wake her. She makes a small sound of protest, reaching for me even in sleep, but settles again as I tuck the covers around her.

Standing beside the bed, I watch her for a moment longer. This woman I've married, this stranger who's somehow become something more. Something I'm not ready to name.

What have I gotten myself into?

I leave her to sleep, moving quietly through the darkened house to my office. Work will focus me, as it always does. Security reports to review, intelligence to analyze, contingency plans to refine.

The computer screen glows in the darkness as I pull up the latest data. Surveillance remains constant at the perimeter, but no active threats yet. Valentina's people are still in assessment mode, weighing their options, calculating risk versus reward now that Kleah bears my name.

They'll make a move eventually. They have to. Valentina won't accept defeat, won't relinquish her claim on the Biancardi fortune without a fight.