The mansion felt different after the attack, as though its walls themselves had absorbed the echoes of violence and now pulsed with them in silence. Guards patrolled more heavily, windows were reinforced, and the air hung heavy with a tension that never seemed to lift. But the sharpest change wasn't in the house—it was in Aria. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the bullet tearing through air meant for her skull, the bodies crumpling under Lorenzo's hand, the way he had stood in front of her like a man who had already decided he would die if it meant she lived. That image wouldn't leave her, and worse, it awakened something she didn't want to name. Gratitude bled into something hotter, something that curled in her stomach and stole her breath whenever he entered a room. She hated herself for it. She hated him for making her feel it. And yet she couldn't stop.
That night, after too many hours of pacing her gilded cage, she found herself drifting to the balcony outside her room. The city lights shimmered in the distance, their glow softened by the velvet dark, and for once she let herself breathe. But she wasn't alone. She never really was. A presence stirred behind her, heavy and electric, and she didn't have to turn to know it was him.
"You should be asleep," Lorenzo's voice came low, quiet, almost soft if not for the steel that always threaded through his words.
Aria's lips curved bitterly, though her eyes stayed fixed on the skyline. "And leave myself vulnerable while your enemies dream of finishing what they started?" She shook her head, her tone sharper than she intended. "I think not."
Silence followed, but it was a silence that pressed against her, that made the hairs rise at the nape of her neck. Then footsteps, slow, measured, until he stood close enough for her to feel the heat of his body at her back. She stiffened, forcing herself not to lean, not to surrender to that pull.
"You shouldn't have been there that day," she whispered, surprising herself with the crack in her voice. "You shouldn't have had to…" She trailed off, unable to finish. To say it aloud would be to acknowledge how close she had come to ceasing to exist.
Lorenzo moved then, his hand brushing against the railing near hers. Not touching, not yet, but close enough to burn. "If I hadn't been there, you'd be in the ground. Don't you understand?" His voice grew rougher, breaking from its usual calm cruelty. "I can't—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening as though he'd revealed too much already.
Aria turned, unable to stop herself, and their eyes met. The fire in his gaze wasn't the cold, controlled flame of the man she had been forced to marry. It was rawer, uncontained, the blaze of someone fighting battles inside himself that no one else could see. Something broke inside her at that sight. Against every rule she had built for herself, against every vow not to bend, she reached up and touched his face. Just the lightest brush of her fingertips across his cheekbone, testing, daring.
Lorenzo stilled as though she had struck him. His breath shuddered, his lashes lowering, and then, before she could take it back, his hand closed around her wrist, holding her in place. Not with the violence he so often wielded, but with a desperation that shocked her. His grip trembled.
The next moment, his mouth was on hers.
It wasn't like the mocking kiss of their wedding, or the staged performances meant for watching eyes. This was raw, hungry, reckless—the taste of everything they had denied themselves crashing to the surface. Aria gasped against him, her body betraying her with the way it leaned, arched, pressed closer. His arms came around her, dragging her flush against his chest, and for once she didn't resist. She couldn't.
Her hands rose to his shoulders, then tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as though she could disappear inside the fire he offered. He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her as his mouth moved harder, deeper, stealing her breath until she was dizzy. Every wall she had built, every line she had sworn not to cross, crumbled beneath the heat of him.
And yet—even as passion roared between them—there was restraint. His hands roamed her waist, her back, but stopped at the threshold of something more. He pressed her against the railing, his body caging hers, his lips trailing fire along her jaw, her throat, but when she arched, when she whispered his name like a curse and a prayer, he stopped.
His forehead pressed to hers, his chest heaving, his grip on her hips almost bruising as he held himself back with visible effort. "If I take more," he rasped, voice shaking, "I won't stop. And you… you don't know what that would mean."
Aria stared up at him, her lips swollen, her breath ragged, her entire body trembling from the nearness of what almost was. She wanted to scream at him, to beg him, to demand he finish what they had started. Instead, she closed her eyes, swallowing the chaos inside her, because she knew he was right. This was dangerous. This was more than fire—it was wildfire, and if she let it consume her, there would be nothing left.
The silence stretched between them, heavy, charged, unbroken—until the shrill ring of his phone tore it apart.
Lorenzo cursed under his breath, pulling back reluctantly, his hand dragging from her waist as though it pained him to let go. He answered with a clipped growl, his voice suddenly business again, though his chest still rose and fell in uneven rhythm.
Aria caught only fragments of the conversation, but it was enough. A few words, heavy, final.
His father. Ill.
The fire between them vanished in an instant, replaced by a different kind of storm in his eyes—one of dread, of old wounds ripped open. When he ended the call, his gaze met hers again, and she saw the walls slamming back into place, brick by brick.
"Pack a bag," he said, his voice cold once more, though it cracked beneath the weight of something deeper. "We're leaving at dawn."