Page 156 of Pietro

"Good point." I take a sip of wine. "Remember that day? You threw a coffee mug at the wall because I was organizing your disaster of an office."

"You were touching my things."

"Your things were covered in three inches of dust and what I'm pretty sure was blood."

"It was definitely blood." He grins at the memory. "You didn't even flinch."

"I was too tired to flinch. Running from psychotic ex-boyfriends takes a lot out of a girl."

His expression shifts slightly. That protective edge creeping in whenever Declan comes up. I reach across the table and touch his hand.

"Hey. That was a joke. Sort of."

He turns his palm up, interlacing our fingers. "You know what I remember from your first day?"

"My excellent typing skills?"

"Your eyes." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "Green like broken glass. Like you'd been shattered but were too stubborn to fall apart."

"Pietro—"

"I threw that mug because you scared the shit out of me." He's not looking at me now, focused on our joined hands. "This girl walks into my office, sees the blood, sees the violence, sees exactly what I am. And doesn't run."

"I needed the job," I say softly.

"Bullshit. You needed something to fight for. Someone who wouldn't treat you like glass." His grip tightens. "And I needed..."

He trails off.

"What did you need?" I prompt gently.

He looks at. "I needed someone who could see past the monster."

"You're not a monster."

"I am." There's no self-pity in it, just fact. "I've done things that would make you run if you knew. Killed people. Tortured them. Enjoyed it sometimes."

"I know who you are, Pietro."

"Do you?" He releases my hand and runs his fingers through his hair—that nervous tell he doesn't know he has. "Because sometimes I look at you and think... fuck, how did this happen? How did you happen?"

The waiter appears to clear our plates. Pietro waves him off. Once we're alone again, he stands abruptly, moving to my side of the table.

"Come here." He pulls me to my feet, hands framing my face. "I'm shit at this."

"At what?"

"Words. Feelings. All of it." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "But you... Christ, Nora. You walked into my life and suddenly I gave a damn about tomorrow. About living past the next shipment, the next hit, the next whatever."

"Pietro—"

"I'm not done." His forehead presses against mine. "I don't know how to do this right. Don't know how to be the man you deserve. But I..."

The words catch in his throat. I can feel him fighting years of walls, of trained emotional distance.

"I love you," he says roughly. "I'm so fucking in love with you it terrifies me."

My heart stops.