Page 39 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

I wake slowly, blinking against the morning light coming through the blinds. The space beside me is warm, but empty. My hand dragging across sheets that still hold her scent.

Last night comes back in fragments: her nails raking down my spine, her legs locked around my waist, her mouth against mine like we were sealing some kind of pact neither of us meant to make. The memory hits me in the chest—violent and strangely tender all at once.

I don’t know what the hell that was and I’m certain I don’t want to forget it.

Something fundamental is shifting inside me. The walls feel thinner, like they’re made of glass instead of steel. The silence carries weight it never had before.

A sudden crash from downstairs jolts me upright. Followed by…is that music?

I swing my legs out of bed, pulling on sweatpants as I move down the hallway. Every survival instinct I possess demands caution, a readiness to attack.

What I find in my kitchen stops me dead.

Caterina.

Barefoot, drowning in one of my white dress shirts.

Hair completely wild from sleep and my hands.

She’s singing into a spatula like it’s a microphone, spinning around my pristine kitchen like she’s never had to kill anyone.

Like she didn’t make me lose every shred of control against the bookshelf hours ago.

She’s a fever dream made flesh. Chaos wrapped in sunlight and sugar. And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to outrun the storm.

I want to stand directly in the eye of it. Drown in it.

There’s flour dusting her cheek, syrup creating abstract art across my marble counters, mixing bowls and ingredients scattered like confetti. It’s so completely opposite to everything I’ve built my identity around that I forget how to breathe properly.

She looks...liberated. Like she hasn’t had to watch her back in years.

If I had any self-preservation left, I’d turn around and pretend this never happened.

Instead, I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her like she’s something precious I don’t deserve to witness. For once, the mess doesn’t trigger my need to restore order. I want to memorize every chaotic detail.

Then she turns and spots me.

Her body goes rigid like she’s waiting for me to remind her she’s violated some unspoken rule.

“I’ll clean everything up,” she says quickly, voice sharp with defensive instinct. Like she’s bracing for anger that isn’t coming.

“Don’t,” I say, and mean it completely.

Her expression turns wary before her shoulders drop. She turns back to the stove, but the spell is broken. She’s aware of my presence now.

“You’re not furious?” she calls over her shoulder, flipping what looks like a pancake that’s seen better days. “Thought you’d have an aneurysm. You worship control like some people worship God.”

“I’m losing it internally,” I deadpan.

She laughs, actually laughs, and the sound hits me like a physical force. I want to capture it, store it somewhere safe for when everything inevitably goes to hell again.

Because peace never remains long in our world. And I’m not naive enough to believe this will be different.

“You’ve either evolved overnight or been replaced by aliens. Should I be concerned?”

Yeah. Call an exorcist.

Because whatever this is, it’s moved way past strategy.

It’s something infinitely more dangerous.

“Probably.”

She grins, biting her lower lip, and I stay anchored against the wall, just absorbing her.

The white shirt hangs off one shoulder, oversized in a way that makes her look both invincible and heartbreakingly fragile.

She hums under her breath—soft, unguarded sounds that don’t belong in our reality.

They belong somewhere mundane and safe, far from this penthouse and the violence that follows us everywhere.

Fuck me for wanting that. For wanting her exactly like this, over and over again.

“I’m destroying your kitchen,” she says eventually, attempting to brush flour from her cheek and only spreading it further. “This has to be killing you inside.”

“It’s not.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“My shirt suits you.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Why aren’t you freaking out about the flour covering your floor?”

“I’m holding back.” I push off the wall, moving toward the coffee maker. Anything to keep my hands busy instead of reaching for her. “Barely.”

Then I dip my finger into her pancake batter before she can stop me.

She gasps. “Excuse me?”

“Needs more vanilla.”

“Oh really? Since when are you a pancake expert?”

“There’s a lot you haven’t discovered about me yet, Cat.”

“Apparently.” She adds vanilla to the bowl, holding my gaze with challenge in her eyes. “So the control obsessive can actually cook?”

I shrug, surprisingly comfortable with this version of myself. “Your technique could use improvement. You’re creating abstract art with the batter.”

“Are you volunteering to teach me, Jackson?”

Before I can overthink it, I’m standing behind her. Pulled by something stronger than gravity.

One hand settles on her hip, the other covers hers on the spatula handle. She tenses for a heartbeat, then exhales and melts into the contact like she’d forgotten she was allowed to be touched gently.

“Like this,” I murmur against her ear, guiding the flip of the next pancake. It lands perfectly, golden and centered.

“Show-off,” she breathes, leaning back into my chest.

It’s too effortless. My hand over hers, the slow rhythm of something so domestic it should feel foreign. Her warmth pressed against me, the subtle scent of vanilla and jasmine from her hair. This shouldn’t work. Not after everything we’ve survived. Not after the blood and betrayal and threats.

But fuck, does it ever work.

That’s what scares me most.

There’s a hollow place in my chest, and this moment slides right into it like it was cut to perfectly fit the shape.

She flips the next pancake solo, smooth and confident. Then she turns in my arms, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, unmistakable pride radiating from every feature.

This is another moment I’ll carry forever. Different from last night’s desperate heat. This is slower, more insidious. A different kind of threat entirely.

I’ve never experienced tenderness like this. Never felt it seep under my skin, settle behind my ribs, burn with this quiet intensity. What terrifies me is how desperately I want to stay suspended in this bubble we’ve created.

“Fast learner,” I say, stepping back before I forget how to function.

She grins, attacking the next pancake with renewed confidence. “I’ve always been good with my hands.”

When breakfast is ready, we sit side by side at the kitchen island, her beautiful chaos still decorating every surface. Flour on the marble. Batter on the stovetop. Syrup fingerprints on cabinet handles.

Our knees brush under the counter. Once, then again. I find myself counting each contact, cataloguing every moment she doesn’t pull away.

Caterina drowns her pancakes in enough maple syrup to fuel a small aircraft.

She notices I don’t pour any. “You know that’s tragic, right?”

“Some of us don’t need a sugar coma with breakfast.”

“And some of us have never learned to appreciate life’s simple pleasures,” she counters, adding even more liquid gold to her plate.

I study her. Not the assassin, not the mafia princess, not the woman who’s systematically dismantled every defense I thought I had. Just...her. Unmasked. Natural. Radiant.

“How do you do it?” The question emerges rougher than intended.

“Do what?”

“Forget about everything waiting for us outside these walls?”

She chews thoughtfully. “I don’t forget. I just press pause, knowing mornings like this might be rare treasures we don’t get often.”

It’s the perfect answer.

“So,” Caterina says, breaking our comfortable silence like it’s the most natural thing in the world, “what’s your favorite color?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious.” She spears another syrup-soaked bite. “Humor me.”

“I assumed you’d already researched every trivial detail about my existence. Seems like an oversight for someone with your investigative skills.”

“Answer the question, smart-ass.”

“Midnight blue.”

Her smile blooms, warm and genuine. “Forest green. Favorite food?”

“This is absurd,” I mutter, but I can’t suppress my own grin. “Italian.”

“Shocking revelation. What’s next, beer on Sundays and Netflix binges?”

“Only when I’m not orchestrating corporate takeovers.”

“So predictable,” she teases. “Mine’s sushi. Preferably with enough wasabi to burn off the last of my childhood trauma.”

I blink. “Well, that escalated.”

“Complex, potentially dangerous, requires skill to handle properly. Felt appropriate.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” I say, watching her more intently. “Also explains your affinity for sharp objects.”

“Because I’m complicated and hard to read?”

“Exactly. Plus potentially lethal if mishandled.”

Her laughter erupts, then mellows into something softer. The atmosphere shifts, still light but threaded with something deeper.

Something I’m becoming addicted to.

“We should disappear today,” I hear myself suggest. “Just us. Somewhere completely private where we can strategize without constantly watching for threats.”

Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth. “Just us?”

“Yeah. No Mortelle surveillance. No Doyle spies. No analyzing every smile for hidden daggers. We need space to plan how we dismantle your father’s empire without getting ourselves killed in the process.”

She studies my face, and I brace for sarcasm, for her walls to reconstruct themselves. Instead: “I’d like that.”

For one perfect moment, I forget the war entirely. Forget the blood, the bodies, the names on our list and the weight of consequences in my jacket pocket.

We’re just two people pretending the world hasn’t already marked us for destruction.

Then I catch it again, that subtle shift I’m learning to recognize. Her armor isn’t gone, just temporarily lowered. Her confidence remains sharp but wrapped around something she’ll never acknowledge aloud.

“You alright?” I ask.

“Are we really diving into emotional territory now?”

I reach out, fingertips brushing her wrist. “We’re diving into something. I don’t have a name for it yet. But I know I don’t want it to end just because we’re too scared to define it.”

She doesn’t respond immediately. Just stands, moving to the sink without explanation. We clean together—me washing, her drying. The silence we fall into isn’t cold or awkward. It’s careful, loaded with unspoken understanding.

After the last dish is put away, she leans against the counter, arms folded across her chest. “Do you think it’ll always be like this? These stolen moments between catastrophes?”

“Probably. But I’ll treasure every single one.”

“If we survive all this.”

I look up. “What?”

“If we ever make it out of all this—our families, the war, everything—do you think we’d make it out clean? Or just carry the rot with us?”

It’s not theoretical anymore. It’s the first time she’s dared imagine an afterward.

“We’ll carry scars,” I tell her honestly. “But if we want it badly enough, we’ll learn how to build something good despite them. Together.”

She watches me like I’ve just offered her salvation and damnation in the same breath.

Then she nods once. “Okay.”

I don’t ask for clarification. I let it exist, let her keep whatever that word contains.

But reality never stays suspended for long.

My phone buzzes against the coffee table, Zoe’s name cutting through our peaceful bubble. I grab it, already tensing.

“Zoe?”

Her voice cracks with barely controlled panic. “Aaron, it’s Dominik’s mother. She disappeared last night. Never came home, phone’s dead. Dom is completely falling apart.”

The peaceful morning shatters like glass.

“I’ll handle it. Stay with Dominik. Don’t let him do anything crazy.”

I end the call before she can respond, already moving toward the hallway.

“What’s wrong?” Caterina stands, all traces of softness evaporating. The lethal woman I married surfaces instantly, ready for war.

“They took Dom’s mother.”

“My father’s people?”

“Has to be. She was in those surveillance photos.”

Her expression hardens, but underneath I glimpse the same cold fear spreading through my chest. Not for ourselves, for the innocent woman caught in our crossfire.

“Then we retaliate. Harder than they expect,” she says simply.

“Get ready.”

As Caterina disappears down the hall, I take one final look at the evidence of our morning—coffee spills, sticky counters, the pans we forgot to wash on the stove, her laughter still echoing off the walls.

Normally I’d clean everything. Restore perfect order.

Not today.

I leave it all exactly as it is.

Physical proof of the happiness we found here. A promise to myself that we’ll fight our way back to this feeling.

Because I know with absolute certainty we’re about to walk directly into hell.

And I’ll burn every inch of it to ash if that’s what it takes to keep her safe.

I’m ready to protect them, protect her, with everything I have and everything I am.

For the first time in my life, the mess doesn’t bother me at all. The only thing that terrifies me now is losing the woman who created it.