CHAPTER THREE
The dining hall was silent.
Not peaceful silence — no, this one pressed against Zara's ribs, squeezing each breath out slowly. The chandelier overhead cast a warm golden glow, soft and elegant, but it only deepened the awareness of danger sitting across from her.
Lorenzo De Luca.
He didn't have to speak to dominate a room.
He didn't have to move to be felt.
He simply existed — and the room bowed.
Zara sat near the center of the long mahogany dining table. Two plates. Two seats. Just her and him. The space felt too big, too empty, and yet not nearly big enough to contain the weight between them.
She tried to keep her hands steady as she lifted her fork. She attempted a bite, tasting nothing. Her nerves were loud — pulsing through her skin like electricity.
Lorenzo watched her quietly.
Not in the way men watched women.
Not with hunger, not with lust, not with anything easy to recognize.
He observed her like he was solving her.
"You're quiet," he said at last. His voice didn't need volume to draw blood. Smooth. Low. Unmistakably in control.
Zara kept her gaze on her plate. "Not much to say."
"That's not true." His tone was almost thoughtful. "Your eyes always have something to say, even when your mouth refuses to."
Her heartbeat stuttered.
She forced herself to look up — and met his gaze.
Dark. Deep. Focused.
Like a predator that had already chosen her long before she was aware of it.
Her fingers trembled.
She set the fork down before he could notice.
"You didn't tell me your real name," Lorenzo said, leaning back slightly.
Zara froze.
She kept her voice steady. "I didn't lie."
"No," he agreed. "You were just surviving."
Her pulse thudded painfully.
He saw too much.
He always had.
Zara swallowed. "I didn't think it mattered."
Lorenzo's gaze didn't waver. "Everything matters to me."
The silence stretched between them — tight, sharp, ready to snap.
He was studying her again.
Noticing everything.
Storing everything.
"You have the posture of someone waiting to run," he murmured.
She didn't breathe.
"You've fought for a long time," he continued. "And now rest feels terrifying."
Zara's chest tightened. "You don't know me."
"Oh, but I do." Lorenzo's voice softened, disturbingly gentle. "I see you clearly, Zara."
Her name sounded different when he said it.
Like he was tasting it.
Claiming it.
She pushed her plate away, slowly. "Lorenzo, I don't want to be someone you try to fix. I'm not your responsibility."
He didn't blink.
He didn't look away.
"I don't fix people," he said. "I protect what I choose to keep."
The room stilled.
A subtle gesture of his hand — and a woman appeared instantly.
"Mia," he said. "Prepare the guest room beside mine."
Zara's breath snapped in her throat.
"No. I can't— I don't—"
"It wasn't a request," Lorenzo said, voice still calm. "You don't belong in the storage room you've been sleeping in."
Her blood ran cold.
She hadn't told him where she stayed.
She hadn't told anyone.
"How do you—"
"Zara," he interrupted softly. "I always know what I need to know."
Her heart was crashing against her ribs now.
Lorenzo stood — slow, controlled. His steps toward her were soundless, but the air shifted with every one.
He stopped beside her chair, close enough that heat radiated from him.
But he didn't touch her.
Not really.
Just one fingertip — feather-light — brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
That was all.
But her body reacted like he had traced fire along her skin.
"Right now," he murmured, voice warm enough to drown her. "I want you to stop running."
Zara's breath came unsteady. "I'm not—"
"You are," he said. "You've been running your whole life. Even when you stand still."
Her chin trembled before she could stop it.
His gaze softened — but only barely.
Enough to be dangerous.
"You don't have to be afraid here," Lorenzo said.
She laughed — bitter and quiet. "Things like me carry their fear with them."
Lorenzo stepped back — giving space, not taking it.
"Rest," he said simply. "We'll talk tomorrow."
Zara stood, legs trembling — not from fear alone but from the dizzying awareness of him.
She walked toward the door, but before she could leave—
"Zara." His voice followed her.
She stopped.
Her back to him.
Her heartbeat too loud.
"Your nightmares won't follow you here," he said softly.
She didn't turn around.
"They always do," she whispered. "I'm the one who brings them."
And she walked out of the dining hall.
But she could feel his gaze on her back — not touching, but claiming.
And somewhere deep, deep inside —
something cracked open.
Just enough to let him in.