Page 60 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

I CHOOSE YOU

H e was gone all night, again, and I wore a hole in the tile. But now, I find him in the tub, soaked in blood. He doesn’t speak at all. He doesn’t ask me to help. He doesn’t need to.

He lets me kneel at the side of the tub and run warm water over the places he can’t reach. It’s the most intimate thing we’ve ever done. Not the sex. Not the wars.

This is new to me. There’s tenderness where there was once silence. And now it’s silence instead of seduction.

I catch him watching me. And for a second, he looks concerned. He’s not worried about himself. He’s scared for me.

Because this is the part where I’m supposed to walk away, tell him the violence is too much. And that there’s no room for love in this war. And I’m supposed to say to him that love can’t grow where bodies fall. But I don’t say any of that.

I dry his hands and wrap his wounded arm. We quietly move to the patio, and I sit beside him an hour later, as the sun rises over a city he has just set on fire. And I say nothing at all.

Because I don’t know what to say, but I haven’t left, either. And he understands what that means. But he still gives me the option.

“If you want me gone, say it. If you want out, say it."

I flinch. Because I could, I could end this now. I could send him away and tell myself that I’ll be fine.

But I’d be lying because I’d lose a piece of my heart.

I see his concern, and the look that says he would let me go if that’s what I need to be happy. And that’s what breaks me. He puts me above his happiness.

He loves me enough to walk away if I ask him to.

He holds me in his arms, and I know he’s waiting for me to give him a sign.

“Stay.” It’s more than a whisper.

One word that means everything.

Because for the first time since we’ve met, I’ve chosen him. Not because I have to. But because I want to. And this time, I’m not hiding behind my quick wit.

He doesn’t speak right away. But I swear his breathing hitches with emotion as he kisses my forehead and buries a hand in my hair as he holds me tight.

He cups my jaw, thumb brushing beneath my eye like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment. Like it’s holy.

“I love you,” he says.

“Say that again,” I say.

“I love you,” he whispers against my face.

I lean in. Press my lips to his, and where the heart I almost lost still beats, I know we’ll get through this.

And then, finally, I let myself fall into him.

And surprisingly, the world doesn’t end. It just... exhales.

And for the first time in my life, I breathe with it.

And my world slows. Because I believe him, and that’s what terrifies me.

I never thought the Borrelli curse applied to me, but I was wrong because love in our world is a curse .

I can’t be his weakness. I don’t want to be a burden to him. But he kneels, not for forgiveness, not to bind me, but to give me truth. And for one brief, blinding moment, I almost say it back.

Almost. But I don’t. Because I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I touch his face. Memorize the sharp edges and the shadows in his gray eyes.

Then, I whispered the only thing I knew for sure. I don’t want to live without him.

“Don’t die.”

His jaw tenses. His breath catches. And then he nods. He stands, pulls me into his arms, and carries me to our room.

His arms wrap around me like armor, steady and strong. He doesn’t speak as he carries me, just breathes—deep, controlled. But I feel the weight of my words in the silence between us.

Don’t die.

He tosses me on the bed. And then he’s over me, he brushes my hair from my face and looks at me like I’m made of stars and blood and every vow he never dared to speak aloud.

His arms wrap around me like armor, steady and strong. He doesn’t speak as he carries me, just breathes—deep, controlled. But I feel the weight of my words in the silence between us.

Don’t die.

He sets me down gently, like I’m breakable, though we both know I’m not. Not anymore. He brushes my hair from my face and looks at me like I’m made of stars and blood and every vow he never dared to speak aloud.

“Undress,” he says. One word. A command wrapped in velvet.

My breath hitches, but I obey. I always do, not because I have to, but because I want to. Because there’s safety in surrender, and power in being seen. His gaze doesn’t stray. It holds me captive, even as my fingers tremble on the buttons of my shirt.

He doesn't touch me yet. Instead, he walks to the drawer, pulling out the silk ropes with the same reverence he uses to unsheathe his blade. His voice is low, rough with intent when he turns back to me.

“On the bed. Knees apart. Hands behind your back.”

I obey, every movement slow, deliberate. I kneel on the mattress, spine straight, thighs open, and he approaches like I’m prey that wants to be caught.

He binds my wrists behind me with a precision that borders on devotion. Not too tight, but snug enough to remind me that he holds control now. That I gave it to him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, stepping back to admire. “So fucking beautiful like this. Mine.”

The word hits me like lightning. I want to deny it, scream that I can't be his weakness, can't afford to be anyone's. But my body betrays me—heat coils low in my belly, breath shallow.

He climbs onto the bed behind me, his hand sliding from the nape of my neck down the curve of my spine, a path of fire. He presses his chest to my back, lips brushing my ear.

“You say you don’t want to be my burden,” he whispers, voice molten. “But you already are. The sweetest one I’ve ever carried.”

My breath catches, but he doesn’t stop. His hand moves around, teasing between my legs, stroking softly—just enough to make me squirm.

“Say it,” he growls. “Tell me who owns this body.”

I bite back a moan, refuse at first. But then he pinches, just enough pain to send pleasure spiraling, and the words slip out like a confession.

“You. It’s yours.”

He groans, satisfied. “Damn right it is.”

He pushes me forward, cheek to mattress, hips in the air. I feel him behind me, hard and hot, the promise of him almost too much to bear.

“You begged me not to die,” he says, voice strained. “Then live with me. Burn with me. Let me ruin you.”

And when he takes me, it’s not gentle. It’s claiming. Raw. Honest. Every thrust is a vow he doesn’t need words to make.

I cry out, bound and bared, and he drinks it in like worship. His hands grip my hips tightly, dragging me back to meet him over and over, until I’m nothing but sensation, unraveling.

“You feel that?” he pants. “That’s what you do to me. You make me fucking lose control.”

“Good,” I gasp, needing him deeper. “Then lose it. For me.”

He growls, animal and human and holy all at once. And when we come undone, it’s not just bodies breaking—it’s everything. It’s trust. It’s surrender. It’s the truth I still can’t say out loud.

But I think he hears it anyway.