The door shut behind him with a quiet finality, sealing them in the study. The fire in the hearth popped, flames licking upward as though stirred by the sudden tension filling the room. Aria stood where she was, her back still half-turned to the bookshelf, her hands damp against the fabric of her dress.
Lorenzo didn't speak at first. He simply watched her. He had the kind of stillness that wasn't passive—it was predatory, a patience designed to unnerve, to strip away pretenses. His dark eyes didn't waver, and in the silence, Aria felt as though he was peeling her apart layer by layer.
Finally, he moved. Slow steps carried him across the rug, his presence expanding until she could hardly breathe. He stopped only a few feet away, close enough that she could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the gleam of his cufflinks in the firelight.
"You shouldn't be here," he said softly. Not a shout, not a threat—just a fact, spoken with the weight of inevitability.
Aria lifted her chin. "Maybe you shouldn't keep so many doors unlocked if you don't want people curious."
His mouth curved slightly, a flash of teeth that wasn't quite a smile. "Curiosity," he murmured, "has killed more than cats in this house."
Her pulse quickened, but she didn't flinch. She clung to the sharp edge of her defiance like a blade. "I wasn't looking for trouble."
"No," he agreed, stepping closer still. His cologne—smoke, spice, something darker—wrapped around her like an invisible chain. "But trouble has a way of finding you, doesn't it, wife?" He let the word drag, deliberate, as though testing how it sounded on his tongue.
Her skin prickled. "Don't call me that like it means something."
"It does." His gaze swept over her, assessing, piercing. "Whether you accept it or not, you belong here. You belong to me. Every move you make, every breath, every word—it's all under my name now."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "I don't belong to anyone."
The fire cracked loudly, as though punctuating her words. For a heartbeat, silence followed, his expression unreadable. Then a low chuckle slipped from him, quiet but rich, the sound curling around her spine.
"There it is," he said, tilting his head slightly. "The fire." His eyes gleamed with something sharp, something almost admiring. "Most would be begging by now. But you—" His gaze locked onto hers. "You bite back."
Her chest tightened, but she refused to look away. "Maybe you should be careful, then," she said, her voice low but steady. "Fire burns."
The words hung between them like smoke, and something shifted. The sharpness in his expression didn't vanish, but it softened, just for a flicker, into something almost like respect. Dangerous, because respect in his world wasn't safety—it was a weapon sharpened into obsession.
He moved again, circling her slowly, forcing her to turn slightly to keep him in her sight. His shoulder brushed hers, the contact so brief, so seemingly accidental, yet it sent a jolt through her veins. Heat rushed to her cheeks before she could stop it.
She told herself it was only adrenaline. Fear. But the truth pulsed beneath her skin: it wasn't just fear.
Lorenzo stilled beside her, his arm grazing hers as he reached past to pluck a book from the shelf. His sleeve brushed her bare skin, and the touch—innocent in form, deliberate in effect—set every nerve on fire.
Aria's breath caught, traitorously loud in the quiet.
He heard it. She knew he did, because his lips curved faintly as he flipped the book open without glancing down at the pages. He closed it again, setting it back with care, before leaning close enough that his breath stirred the hair near her ear.
"Careful," he whispered, his voice a velvet blade. "Fire burns."
Then he stepped back, the air rushing cold between them where his heat had been. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door, his presence receding but his words burning hotter than the flames in the hearth.
Aria remained frozen, her heart slamming against her ribs, her skin still tingling where he had touched her. Her fists unclenched slowly, her nails leaving crescent marks in her palms.
He wanted her to be afraid. He wanted her to remember the chains, the rules, the weight of his control.
But all she could remember was the spark that had flared when their skin met, uninvited, undeniable.
And that terrified her more than any threat he could make.