21. Luciano
Chapter 21
Luciano
I need to fix this. The room is suffocating; the lingering smell of sex mingles with sweat, and every breath reminds me of how far I’ve gone, how many lines I’ve crossed.
“Come,” I say, trying to steady my voice. She blinks at me with uncertainty, her dark eyes wide and questioning. Carefully, I take her hand—gently, as if she might shatter at my touch—and lead her to the adjoining bathroom. My mind whirls with a thousand regrets as I turn on the shower and adjust the temperature until it’s perfectly warm. Steam begins to fill the space, curling around us in gossamer tendrils. It’s a welcome relief from the tension.
Gianna stands near the sink with her arms wrapped around her like armor. Her breath comes in unsteady, shallow bursts. God, she looks so fragile now. Something vicious claws at my chest, a voice of conscience telling me I did this to her, I forced her back into that vulnerable state. Each second that passes only intensifies the guilt gnawing at my insides.
“Shower,” I murmur, tone filled with remorse and self-loathing. “Let me— let me help you. Please.”
She hesitates, and her eyes search mine, darting back and forth like a frightened bird seeking sanctuary. I see fear swirling there in the depths but also a flicker of trust. A painful longing twists in my gut that makes it hard to breathe. Please don’t look at me like I’m a monstereven if I am one, even if I deserve every ounce of the fear reflecting back at me.
But Gianna gives me a tiny nod. My heart lurches as I gently peel away my clothes to join her. Her eyes never drift from my face. They never sink to the prominent scar on my chest or dip to my waist, where there is no longer evidence of my arousal. Her eyes glisten with tears still, but she doesn’t speak. I step under the warm cascade of water first, tugging her inside, and let the spray soak us both.
The heat of the water stings my skin like tiny needles of redemption; it’s a welcome reminder of something real and cleansing. She shivers as the steam envelops us, and I guide her closer to the jets. As she presses against me, I can feel her heartbeat through her skin. But this time, there’s no aggression in my touch—just a desperate apology conveyed through gentle fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Here, beneath the stream of hot water, I can admit that I was wrong. My hands glide over her shoulders, washing away the evidence of my harshness. The soap smells of sandalwood, and I use it to clean her of my possessive touch. “I went too far.” Each sweep of my hands across her skin feels like an unspoken plea for forgiveness, and I take my time, ensuring every motion speaks of tenderness rather than demand.
Gianna’s eyes are downcast, rivulets of water sliding across her cheeks and neck. I catch a glimpse of bruised skin where my grip was too tight. It appears as a small shadow on her thigh, and it makes my stomach churn with regret. How am I the same man who bandaged her burn and let her keep a stray kitten because they both looked like they needed each other? What kind of monster am I that I can make her smile one minute and cry the next?
She doesn’t speak; she just tilts her face up to the water, letting it wash the tears away. My chest aches with each ragged breath she takes. Carefully, I run soapy fingers over her arms and her back in silent apology. She shudders, but she doesn’t pull away.
“Gianna,” I murmur her name like a confession. When she looks at me, tears mixing with droplets on her lashes, guilt stabs me in the stomach. “I— I didn’t mean—” I falter. What did I not mean? To hurt her? To show her how lost I am?
She presses her lips together, and then slowly, she reaches out to touch my chest. Her fingers graze over the scar from her father. I flinch, not from pain but from the overwhelming sense of vulnerability it triggers. It peels back every layer of armor I’ve built around myself.
My throat is so tight I can barely breathe. I let my hand slide to her bandaged palm, the one she burned cooking dinner for me. The bandage is damp, and I frown as I realize it will need rewrapping.
I curse under my breath, turning off the shower with a quick twist of the handle, the metal squeaking in protest. Silence descends, broken only by the rhythmic drip of water from the faucet. Gianna opens her mouth as if to speak, but no words come out
I gather a towel, wrapping it around her with unsteady hands. She flinches again, minutely this time. It’s like a knife to my gut, but I deserve it. I deserve worse than quiet fear and accusation in her eyes. Even in my darkest fantasies of revenge, when I let myself imagine a thousand different ways this could play out, I never pictured her looking at me like this. Or maybe I never realized how it would feel if she did, that it would hollow me from the inside out.
“Gianna.” I know what I need to do, and the words stick in my throat because they don’t sound like they’re enough. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, though the phrase feels hollow and inadequate. I brush a wet strand of hair behind her ear, trying to ignore how she tenses at my touch. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I add, the admission burning my throat like acid. “I know I said I did before, but it’s not you I’m mad at. Not really.”
She inhales shakily, her breath catching slightly in her throat. Her mouth opens, but then she closes it with a subtle shake of her head as if the words she wants to say are too heavy to voice. But finally, after several long moments, Gianna leans her forehead against my chest. The contact is so tentative it rips my heart in two. I let the towel slip around her shoulders, hugging her to me gently but careful not to trap her. Her body shakes, but whether it’s from cold or lingering shock, I can’t tell. I hold her anyway, feeling each breath, hoping to steady her—hoping that maybe it’ll steady us .
My mind races with everything I should say but can’t. I’m sorry for losing it, for punishing you for my indecision, for wanting you so badly I can’t see straight. The weight of her against me is the only thing keeping me from imploding. Words pile up in my throat like shards of glass—explanations, apologies, desperate confessions—but I swallow them all down, afraid that speaking will shatter what’s left between us.
After a few moments of clinging to each other in the humid silence, I say, “I’ll help you wrap your hand again.” She nods, letting me lead her toward the sink. My fingers tremble as I open the medicine cabinet and rummage for fresh gauze. I focus on what I can control: blotting the moisture from her palm, applying ointment, wrapping the gauze until her burn is secured. Each pass of the bandage feels like atonement for the bruises I left on her soul.
When I’m done, Gianna flexes her fingers experimentally. Our eyes meet, and for a split second, a thread of something passes between us. It’s fragile, made up of half-whispered apologies and the memory of how good we could be if I didn’t keep hurting her.
She draws the towel tighter around herself and steps back. I swallow, and it erases all the words I want to say: I’m sorry. I’m broken. I don’t know how to want you without punishing you for it. Instead, I offer a stiff nod, retreating from the bathroom so she can dress. The reality of what just transpired weighs heavily on me. I wanted to re-establish dominance. Now, I feel more lost than ever.
In the hallway, I catch sight of Cupcake peeking around the corner with wide, curious eyes. Great . The tiny cat hisses at me, then trots over as if torn between wanting affection and wanting to hate me. I rub a hand over my face as exhaustion seeps into my bones. I get it, Cupcake, that’s how Gianna feels, too.
Each time I cross another line with her, I expect to feel triumphant. But all I ever feel is dread. The lines between punishment, pleasure, and possession have never been so dangerously blurred. And if I can’t find a way to navigate this blurriness, it might destroy us both.
And despite the guilt and the shame and the fear choking me, one undeniable truth remains: I can’t let her go.