17. Raiden
Chapter 17
Raiden
I wake up with an uncomfortable sensation in the back of my head, like someone stuffed cotton between my skull and brain. For a moment, I don’t know where I am.
It would seem like I’m in my own bed, though the familiar contours of my mattress and the weight of my blanket take several seconds to register through my muddled senses. But I’m thrown off by the body beside me.
Lucrezia’s dark locks are splayed out on my pillow like a halo, cascading across the white cotton in wild waves. Her lips curve into a soft, knowing smile, insisting that even while she sleeps, she’s tormenting someone.
It isn’t rare to find a woman in my bed. I’ve found them here before, and I’ve even invited them to stay the night. The part that concerns me is the way my heart skips a beat when I look at her. What the fuck is that about?
I get up carefully, kicking myself for caring if my jostling wakes her up, and pad quietly to the bathroom. The cold tiles bite my bare feet as the lingering haze of sleep begins to fade. I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair’s a mess, sticking up in every direction, and there’s a shadow of exhaustion under my eyes that no amount of sleep ever seems to erase. But it’s not my face I’m focused on—it’s the lingering echo of last night.
Kiss me. Touch me. Make love to me. Her voice replays in my head, soft but sure, cutting through the static in my brain like a knife. I remember the way her words wrapped around me, how they weren’t just a plea—they were a command. Lucrezia Castiglione doesn’t beg; she bends the world to her will. And somehow, she’d bent me, too. Even now, hours later, I can still feel the ghost of her fingertips on my skin, the way she traced invisible patterns across my chest like she was mapping territory she intended to claim. The memory sends an involuntary shiver down my spine, and I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white. I knew getting involved with her would be dangerous—everything about her screams warning signs—but I was like a moth drawn to a flame that knows it’s going to burn. I went willingly into the light, and now I’m blinded.
I dry my face with a towel and take a deep breath before heading back to my room. The sight that greets me stops me in my tracks.
Lucrezia’s curled up in my spot now, tangled in the sheets like she owns them. Her dark hair spills across my pillow; one arm rests under her head, and the other clutches the blanket close to her chest. She’s peaceful in a way that seems almost wrong, like chaos itself decided to take a nap.
And the sick, twisted thing is, my chest tightens as I watch her. She looks small, delicate even, which is ridiculous considering I’ve seen her talk down her crazy half-brother and walk into a biker clubhouse like she owned the place. But now, in this moment, she looks like something else entirely: vulnerable.
And I hate it.
Not because it makes her weak but because it stirs something in me I’ve been trying to bury for years. Something that tells me I want to keep her safe from the world she’s trying to destroy. It’s an instinct that goes against everything I’ve built myself to be, this urge to shield and protect when I should be pulling away. The feeling sits like lead in my stomach, heavy with possibilities I can’t afford to consider.
I take a step closer, and that’s when I notice the scars again. They peek out from the edge of the blanket, thin, raised lines crisscrossing her back like the remnants of a battle. My stomach churns, a sharp pang cutting through my chest like a knife. I’ve seen scars before—I’ve got plenty of my own—but these? These tell a story I don’t want to imagine. A story of survival at a cost no one should have to pay. The marks are old, silvery in the dim light, but they might as well be fresh wounds for how they make my blood run cold. Some are precise and calculated—the kind that comes from someone taking their time. Others are jagged and desperate—speaking of moments when survival was the only thing that mattered. Each one is a chapter in a book of pain that makes me want to hunt down whoever wrote it.
What the hell did they do to you, Lucrezia?
I try to shake the thought, but it clings to me like smoke, choking and inescapable. She stirs slightly, her brow furrowing as she nuzzles closer to the pillow, her lips parting in a soft sigh. My pillow. My space. My mess of emotions I swore I’d never let myself feel again.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, staring at her like a man staring at the edge of a cliff, knowing full well he’s about to jump.
She’s everything I should avoid: a hurricane wrapped in silk, a disaster waiting to happen. And yet, for the first time in years, I’m not thinking about Becca.
I’m thinking about her.
Becca’s ghost doesn’t haunt this moment, doesn’t shadow the space between us like it has every other time I’ve let someone get too close. No, this is all Lucrezia. Her wild hair, her sharp edges, her soft curves. Her chaos and her calm. Lucrezia is dangerous in ways Becca never was—not because she tries to be, but because she simply exists, unapologetically taking up space.
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated at myself for letting her get under my skin. But as I stand there, watching her breathe, I know it’s already too late.
I’ve fallen. Hard and fast and without a safety net.
And there’s no climbing back up, no emergency exit from this freefall into whatever storm Lucrezia’s about to unleash in my life.
Not that I want one, anyway.