Recovery was supposed to be slow, but Luca had other plans.
I didn't even realize I'd left the hospital until I woke to the soft hum of the mansion. White walls had been replaced with dark wood and velvet drapes, the kind that swallowed light and made the space feel private, like a world apart from everyone else.
He had left my room open, just as he had in the hospital. But here, the effect was different. Here, the air felt charged, every shadow a reminder of him, every step echoing through the halls like a warning.
"You can walk," he said, appearing in the doorway without sound. Black suit, crisp shirt, sleeves rolled back just enough to show forearms that could crush bone without effort. "Slowly. Carefully."
I rose, shoulder aching, muscles trembling. He didn't move an inch closer, but I could feel the weight of his gaze pressing me forward.
"Why are you here?" I asked, grimacing at the ache when I put weight on my leg.
"Because someone has to make sure you survive," he said. Flat. Certain. His eyes didn't waver. "Try not to fall."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Not because of him, because of the way he made me notice myself when I thought I was paying attention only to him.
Walking through the halls was worse than standing still. I couldn't escape the constant awareness that he was measuring me, every falter, every careful step, every impatient breath.
"You're slow," he said suddenly. Not angry. Not teasing. Just… noting. Like a general observing a soldier he didn't entirely trust.
"I'm injured," I snapped.
"You're not weak," he corrected. His voice dropped slightly, just a shade softer, like he almost, almost, wanted me to believe him. Then it hardened again. "You're reckless. That's worse."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he had no right. But my shoulder throbbed, my chest tightened, and the heat in my face betrayed me before my words could.
Instead, I said nothing.
Which, apparently, was exactly the point.
The lessons continued.
He showed me the private gardens, how to walk safely, how to hold myself when others might be watching, how to exist in his world without dying. Every movement was deliberate. Every word measured. He was patient, calm to the point of cruel, but never gentle. Not once.
And yet… in the quiet moments, when he thought I wasn't looking, I noticed things. Small things.
The way his jaw clenched when I winced.
The way his fingers twitched when I nearly lost balance.
The tiny catch in his voice when he told me to rest.
It was subtle. Dangerous. Unspoken.
And it made my skin prickle.
That evening, he cornered me in the library. Not aggressively. Not violently. But close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that my breath hitched when he shifted slightly.
"You're testing me," he said quietly, almost a growl.
"I'm not," I replied, though I knew it was a lie.
"You are," he said. "And you have no idea what that will cost you."
"Try me," I whispered.
The words hung between us like a spark over dry tinder. His dark eyes flared, and for the briefest moment, he looked off balance.
Then he stepped closer, not out of anger, but something deeper, wilder. His fingers tangled in my hair before I could react, pulling my head back to expose my throat as his lips crashed down on mine.
The kiss was punishing, consuming, his teeth nipping my lower lip before his tongue swept in, claiming me with a hunger that matched what had been building between us for weeks. I melted against him, my body arching instinctively, but when he deepened the kiss, his grip tightened on my hair and something sharp shot through my shoulder, the one that had been bothering me since the accident.
I winced against his mouth, a small gasp escaping me.
He froze instantly. Pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching my face. When he saw the pain in my expression, something like panic flashed across his features.
Without another word, he released me and stepped away. Adjusted his jacket with precise, controlled movements, and left without looking back.
I didn't sleep that night. Not because I feared him. Because I couldn't stop thinking about how carefully, meticulously, he was learning me. And how, in the process, I was learning him.
My fingers kept drifting to my lips, tracing the shape of where his had been. I could still feel the imprint of his mouth, still taste the cinnamon and something darker that was purely him. The mafia lord who was forcing me into this arrangement, demanding marriage to settle a debt that had nothing to do with me. I was supposed to hate him. I was supposed to fight this.
But as I lay in the darkness, my traitorous mind replayed our kiss, imagining it without interruption, his hands exploring, my body responding, that perfect mouth claiming more than just my lips.
I finally fell asleep just before dawn, his name a whispered curse and a secret prayer tangled together on my lips.
~ Luca's POV ~
He stormed into his suite, slamming the door behind him with enough force that a painting rattled against the wall. Before he'd even registered the action, his hand shot out, sending a crystal decanter flying across the room where it shattered against the fireplace.
"Why?" he growled to the empty room, his voice raw with frustration. "Why did I fucking kiss her?"
He paced the length of his study, his blood still too hot, his thoughts too loud. This wasn't part of the plan. Feelings weren't part of the equation. She was a means to an end—a way to settle a debt and secure an alliance.
But damn if that mouth of hers hadn't been tempting him for weeks, her smart comments and defiant eyes wearing down his resolve bit by bit until he'd snapped.
He raked his hands through his hair, pulling at the strands in agitation. The kiss had been... perfect. Too perfect. The way she'd melted against him, how her breath had caught when his teeth grazed her lip. How she'd tasted of peppermint and something inherently her.
He swore again, this time in Italian, the words harsh and guttural as they left his throat. This was dangerous. This was exactly what he couldn't allow.
He stripped off his jacket, his tie, throwing them carelessly over a chair. The shower. Cold water. That's what he needed to clear his head, to wash away the sensation of her still lingering on his skin.
As the icy spray hit his body, he stood rigid, willing the desire to leave him, willing his body to obey his mind. But even as the water ran red with the blood from his fist where he'd punched the tile, one truth remained unavoidable.
He wanted her.
More than he should.
More than was safe.
And that terrified him more than any enemy ever could.