The storm is gone by morning.
But it’s left its mark—on the world, on the house, on me.
Tree limbs are scattered across the courtyard like bones. Puddles shimmer across the marble floors where the rain snuck in through the old windows. The whole villa feels quiet, but not in a peaceful way. In a waiting way. Like something is about to begin, or end, or both.
I wake up alone.
The bed is ice cold beside me, sheets tangled from what we did last night. From the way we tried to erase everything ugly between us with our bodies, and heat, and whispered lies.
But some truths don’t burn away so easily.
My thighs still ache.
My mouth is sore from kissing him so hard.
And I can still feel the phantom imprint of his voice on my skin—low, rough, filthy.
I sit up slowly, scanning the room.
The letter’s gone.
So is Luca.
There’s no note. No trace. Just silence.
I find my robe and slip it on, knotting the belt tight. I pad barefoot through the halls, past dust-moted sunlight and empty rooms, not sure if I’m looking for him or for the version of myself I lost somewhere between his mouth and the feel of him thrusting deep inside me.
Eventually, I find him.
Not in the study. Not in the garden. Not in the bedroom where I left him gasping my name into my throat.
He’s in the chapel.
Tucked in the farthest part of the house, behind a heavy wooden door I’ve passed a dozen times without looking twice. I push it open gently and step inside.
The air is thick with incense and memory.
Dust clings to the pews. The altar is bare, the stained-glass windows faded by time. But he’s there.
Luca.
Seated near the front, elbows on his knees, head bowed like a man not sure whether he’s praying or bracing for damnation.
He doesn’t move when I enter. Doesn’t look at me. But I feel him register me all the same. His shoulders stiffen. His breath pauses. His whole body shifts just enough for me to know I still affect him—even now. Even after everything.
“I thought you’d be gone by now,” he says without lifting his head.
“I thought about it.”
He lets out a short exhale. A nod.
I walk down the aisle slowly, letting my fingers trail across the edge of a dusty pew, then slide in beside him. The wood creaks beneath me.
“You took the letter,” I say softly.
He nods again. “I didn’t want you to burn it.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“I would have.”
We sit in silence.
I glance sideways at him.
He looks wrecked. Haunted. Like sleep didn’t touch him. Like the ghost of what he’s done is heavier than any priest could absolve.
“I didn’t come here to forgive you,” I say.
“I didn’t expect you to.”
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“But I’m also tired of pretending I don’t know what this is.”
He finally looks at me. His eyes—those brutal, possessive, beautiful eyes—are filled with something I can’t name.
“You don’t owe me anything, Emilia.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And that’s the only reason I’m choosing to stay.”
His jaw clenches. His breath catches like I’ve punched him in the chest.
“I could have walked out that door this morning and never looked back. But I didn’t.”
“Why?” His voice is hoarse. Raw. “Why the hell would you stay after everything I’ve—”
“Because I love you.”
The silence swells around us.
I say it again, softer this time. “I love you. The monster. The man. The parts you try to hide and the parts you throw in everyone’s face. I don’t want safety if it means silence. I don’t want peace if it means pretending I don’t crave the way you ruin me.”
His eyes flash. He grabs my wrist. Not roughly—but firmly. Anchoring himself.
“I don’t know how to be good,” he says. “I don’t know how to unlearn the violence or tame the possessiveness. I don’t know how to touch you without wanting to claim you.”
“Then don’t.”
His breath shakes.
I rise from the pew, step between his legs, and straddle him.
He goes still.
His hands fall to my hips, gripping tight through the silk of the robe. His gaze drags over me—hair tousled, mouth bare, thighs parted just for him.
“You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs.
“I’ve already burned.”
I untie the robe slowly, letting it fall open.
His eyes darken.
No bra. No panties. Just skin and want and the kind of heat that lives in the marrow of my bones now.
“Jesus Christ,” he growls. “You’re killing me.”
“Then die with me.”
He grabs me—mouth crushing mine, hands sliding up my thighs, my ass, my back. The robe falls away completely, and I gasp into the kiss as he lifts me in one fluid motion and carries me out of the chapel.
We don’t make it back to the bedroom.
We don’t need to.
He slams me against the nearest wall, the stone cool against my spine. His mouth is everywhere—neck, collarbone, chest—biting, sucking, devouring.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he pants. “Every inch of you. Mine.”
His hand slides between my legs, fingers slipping inside like they were made for me.
“You’re dripping,” he groans. “Soaked. I haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already begging for it.”
“I need you,” I gasp, rocking against him. “I need all of you.”
“Sweetheart,” he growls, “you’re about to get it.”
He lowers me to the floor just long enough to shed his clothes—shirt gone, belt undone, slacks pushed down. His cock springs free, thick and hard, already leaking.
I lick my lips.
“You want it?” he asks, stroking himself slowly.
“Yes.”
“Then turn around.”
I do.
He presses my chest to the cold stone, hikes my leg up onto the narrow windowsill, and pushes inside me from behind with one deep, brutal thrust.
We both groan.
“Fuck, yes,” he snarls. “So tight. So fucking wet. You were made for this cock.”
He starts to move—long, hard strokes that hit deep and sure.
I moan, fingers bracing against the wall, body arching into every thrust.
“You like this?” he grits. “You like me owning you like this? Fucking you where anyone could walk in and see who you belong to?”
“Yes,” I cry. “I’m yours. Always.”
He fucks me harder, faster, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the stone hall like a prayer.
“You’re going to come for me,” he says. “Right here. Against this wall. With my name in your mouth and my cock buried so deep you’ll feel me for days.”
I fall apart for him.
With a cry that’s equal parts surrender and triumph, I come hard, pulsing around him, shaking with the force of it.
He follows with a low, vicious growl, thrusting once, twice more before spilling inside me with a curse and a promise.
“I’m never letting you go,” he breathes against my neck. “Never.”
We stay like that—panting, clinging, wrecked—for what feels like forever.
When he finally pulls back, he lifts me again, cradles me in his arms like I’m breakable, and carries me the rest of the way to the bedroom.
We don’t sleep.
We make love again—slower this time. On clean sheets. With soft kisses and rough hands and the kind of worship that makes the air feel holy.
When we collapse at last in the early afternoon, our limbs tangled and sweat cooling between us, I look at him and know.
I was never meant to be protected from this man.
I was meant to survive him.
And now?
I belong to him.
Completely.
Not because he took me.
Because I gave myself willingly.
And in the quiet that follows, with his hand resting over my heart and his voice rough in my ear, I whisper the only truth that matters:
“You’re not the life I dreamed of, Luca Bellandi. But you’re the one I choose.”
