Morning comes too fast. Far too fast.
It finds us tangled together, twisted in the sheets, skin against skin, our breaths still mingled and our bodies heavy from too much desire and too little sleep. For a moment I remain still, my cheek pressed to his chest, listening to his heart, and that fragile quiet almost makes me believe nothing is wrong.
But the thoughts come quickly.
Too quickly.
And as awareness settles in, last night's madness crashes over me like a cold wave.
What have I done?
How could I have been so stupid as to let him touch me after everything he did? After the basement. After the fear. After the humiliation. How could I melt into his arms as if none of it had ever existed?
I hate him. And I hate myself even more.
Because I'm stupid. And stupid girls get exactly what they deserve.
I ease myself out of the warmth of his arms as if I might burn, rising without allowing myself to look at him, without granting myself even a second to soften again. My skin is still sensitive, my body aching in places I refuse to remember right now, but my mind is sharp—cruel and merciless. I walk naked into the bathroom and step straight under the shower, letting the hot water fall over me.
As if it could wash away the guilt.
As if it could erase the marks of a night I don't want to claim.
I stand beneath the scalding stream and argue with myself, an inner voice that shows no mercy. I try to find excuses, because if I can't forgive myself, if I can't accept myself, then who will? Maybe my chaotic life—tossed from place to place like an overused kitchen rag—has left me with standards so low they barely exist. Maybe the fact that no one has ever held me without asking for something in return has made me confuse warmth with love.
The first man who held me close and made me feel, for a few fleeting moments, safe, managed to steal my heart with a few empty words and an intense look.
Stupid.
That's what I am.
Stupid.
When I'm done scolding myself, I wrap a towel around my body and step out of the bathroom, still wet, still warm, but hollowed out inside. I stop in the doorway.
Duca is in bed, awake, sitting up against the headboard, the sheet fallen carelessly over his hips. Morning light sketches the long lines of his muscular body, his broad shoulders, the powerful chest crossed diagonally by a white bandage—a reminder of yesterday's blood. His hair is tousled from the night, softer, more disordered, a strand falling over his forehead in an almost boyish way that clashes painfully with the harshness of his face.
His features are strong—sharp jaw, firm mouth—and his bright blue eyes watch me with an intensity that almost makes me forget every promise I made under the shower.
He is such a beautiful man. Perfect in his cruelty and his madness.
He looks at me as if he could devour me with his eyes, as if he can still feel the night between us on his skin.
No.
I will not fall into the same pit twice.
Last night was a moment of madness—the shock of the past few days searching for release, and I found the sweetest one in his arms. Last night was goodbye.
And I intend to keep my word.
"When are you taking me home?" I ask, my voice colder than I feel.
He grimaces slightly, as if my question struck somewhere tender.
"We're leaving soon," he answers. "Should I take it that I haven't managed to convince you to stay with me?"
I hold his gaze, even though my knees still feel weak.
"No. I'm not staying."
He wets his lips and studies me for a long moment.
"Even knowing I'm almost in love with you? Even knowing how much I want you in my life? Even if—"
I cut him off.
"This almost-love of yours is nothing without trust," I say, my voice steadier than I am inside. "You can tell me you want me, that you care about me, that you almost love me—but when you had to choose between me and your suspicions, you chose to tie me up, not to believe me. You chose your fear, not my word. And that was when I needed you most."
He looks at me as if every word lands square in his chest.
"I didn't know what to believe," he says quietly. "All the evidence was against you. The footage, my men, Gaston's blood… everything pointed to you. I reacted like a leader, not like a man in love."
"That's exactly the problem," I reply. "I want a man who stands beside me when everyone else is pointing fingers."
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.
"If you stay, things will be different. I give you my word. No one will touch you again. No one will humiliate you again. You'll have your place beside me, not beneath me."
I smile bitterly.
"I don't want a place beside you if I have to live afraid that one day, at the first doubt, you'll send me back to the basement."
"It won't happen again," he says firmly. "I made a mistake once. I've learned."
"Trust isn't something you say you've learned, Duca. You feel it. And I don't feel it anymore."
We fall silent for a moment, and the air between us feels like it might tear apart.
"If you truly care about me as much as you say you do," I continue more softly, "you'll give me back my freedom."
My words hang heavy between us.
Duca lowers his head, his chin brushing his chest, and takes a deep, rough breath, as if each inhale costs him.
"Yes. You're right," he says at last. "That's what we'll do."
He slowly frees himself from the sheet, unhurried, then rises from the bed. His long, naked, powerful body passes so close to me that I feel the warmth of his skin stirring the air around me, igniting again something I stubbornly try to extinguish. Against my will, I follow the line of his shoulders, his broad back, the muscles shifting naturally beneath his skin, and for a fraction of a second I almost reach out to him—just to make sure he's real.
He reaches the door and pauses, hand on the handle, but he doesn't turn toward me.
"We leave in an hour," he says, his voice low, tired, less certain than I've ever known it.
And he walks out just like that, naked, without adding anything more—leaving behind the heavy silence of the room, the scent of us tangled in the sheets, and a hollow that settles slowly into my chest and hurts far more than I ever wanted to admit.
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