Chapter 51 #2
“Like I’m human,” he replies, the words bitter.
I swallow hard. “You are.”
Lorenzo’s laugh is low and unpleasant. “That’s generous.”
I lean forward slightly, hands gripping each other tighter. “How did you survive?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t feel like dying.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly it.” He cuts in. “I dragged myself out. Used my belt for a tourniquet. Bad knot. Worse pain. But it did the deed.”
I stare at him, horrified.
“And then,” he adds, lips curling, “since I had fucked up by going without Matteo and backup, I called Rafe.”
My brows lift. “And?”
Lorenzo’s eyes gleam with dark amusement. “He answered like I was interrupting his beauty sleep.”
Despite myself, a laugh escapes. “No way.”
Lorenzo’s mouth lifts, the closest thing to real humor I’ve seen from him since the wedding. “He thought I was joking. Told me to ‘stop being dramatic.’”
“That sounds like him.”
“He showed up, but he wasn’t alone. He brought Matteo,” Lorenzo continues, voice rougher now. “Both of them took one look at me and went white, which was satisfying.
“I remember both of them so clearly despite being delusional from blood loss,” Lorenzo says, quieter. “Rafe was trying to hold pressure. Matteo kept telling me not to close my eyes.”
My chest aches. “And then?”
“I lived, obviously. But I told him if I died, he owed me a drink.”
I blink. “That’s what you said?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I was trying to motivate him.”
“That’s not motivation.”
“It worked,” he replies.
Silence settles between us. I stare at the scar again, then at his bruised knuckles, then at his face. Something shifts in me.
Understanding.
Because monsters aren’t born. They’re made.
I swallow hard. “Does it hurt?”
His gaze flicks up, surprised.
“Still,” I clarify, gesturing helplessly at his scar. “Does it still hurt?”
“Sometimes,” he admits, the word reluctant. “When it rains. When it’s cold. When I’m tired.”
My throat tightens. “So basically always.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Basically.”
I stare at him, and my voice comes out before I can stop it. “Why show me?”
Lorenzo’s eyes sharpen, and he looks at me like I just asked him to confess to a crime he didn’t commit.
Then he shrugs. It’s small, almost careless. “You asked. And you were looking at me like you wanted to know.”
My cheeks heat. “I was looking because I was shocked.”
“Sure,” he replies, gaze dropping to my mouth briefly, then back to my eyes. “Shocked.”
My pulse stutters, furious at my body for responding.
I force my tone back into something safer. “You keep scars like trophies.”
Lorenzo’s lips twitch. “They’re reminders.”
“Of what?” I challenge.
His eyes go cold. “That I don’t get to be naive.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because I remember him as naive. I remember him laughing in the boathouse like the world hadn’t taught him cruelty yet.
And now here he is, older, sharper, full of violence, carrying wounds that will haunt him for life.
I take a slow breath. “I didn’t know.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t know anything,” I whisper, the sentence heavy with everything I can’t say.
Lorenzo’s jaw flexes. “You didn’t know because you didn’t stay.”
Pain flashes in his eyes, too quick to be anything but real.
I flinch, and he sees it. Of course he does.
His hand lifts, fingers reaching toward my face, then stops. For a second, he just hovers there, knuckles inches from my cheek.
Then, slowly, his hand moves and brushes a loose strand of hair back behind my ear.
His touch is careful, like he’s handling something easily breakable.
Lorenzo’s thumb grazes my cheekbone once, a ghost of contact, and his eyes hold mine as my breath catches.
“Stop looking at me like I’m salvageable.”
I swallow hard. “Stop acting like you’re not.”
“You think you can fix me?”
“I think you’re more than this,” I whisper, then immediately want to take it back because it makes me feel vulnerable.
Lorenzo’s gaze drops to my lips again, and the air changes.
It reminds me of the moment right before a storm breaks. My pulse starts racing, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or something worse.
Lorenzo leans in a fraction, and my whole body braces. A weird feeling of electricity rushes through my body, and that terrifies me more than anything.
His breath warms my mouth. “Careful.”
I don’t move. I can’t. I’m frozen in place, and the room feels too small for both of us.
I expect him to cross the space . . .
Please cross it.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls back, not far, just enough to keep some semblance of control.
I blink, trying to breathe like a normal person. I should leave. I should run upstairs, lock my door, and pretend I didn’t almost melt when I thought he might kiss me.
Instead, I stay.
I’m tired of running.
I clear my throat, voice rough, needing to change the narrative of the moment. “I saw Grant.”
“What?”
“I . . . didn’t tell him anything.”
His eyes snap to mine, cold and sharp. “Grant was there? Nico didn’t mention that . . .”
I regret telling him instantly. I should have kept it to myself. But it’s out now, hanging between us, making my stomach tighten in fear.
“Yes, he was there.” I lift my chin. “At my parents’ house. Asking questions.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightens, and the room feels like it drops ten degrees.
“And you told him what?”
I swallow hard. “As I said before, I didn’t tell him anything.”
His gaze searches my face like he’s looking for a lie. I hold still because he won’t find anything.
“Why not?” he asks, voice low.
“Because I didn’t want you to—” I whisper.
“To what?”
“Get hurt.”
He leans back slowly, like he needs distance from that confession, and drags a hand down his face.
“Christ. You really are going to ruin me twice.”
My chest tightens. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You don’t even realize you’re holding the knife.”
My throat bobs. “Then take it away.”
Lorenzo’s mouth curves, dark and bitter. “I can’t.” The word hangs there.
Heavy.
Too honest.
I stare at him, my voice barely a breath. “Why?”
His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking, and for a second, the cruelty peels back far enough that I can see the raw thing underneath. He shifts closer, not touching, but close enough that I feel him.
“You want the truth?”
My pulse jumps. “No.”
His mouth twitches. “Liar.”
I swallow hard. “Fine. Yes.”
“You were never a phase.” His voice is rough. Filled with emotion. “You were always the end.”
The words hit like a punch. Not because they’re romantic. Because they’re terrifying.
Because an ending isn’t gentle.
An ending is final.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
I don’t know what to do with that kind of confession from a man who turns love into a weapon.
Lorenzo watches me struggle with it, eyes dark, and then his mouth curls.
He walks over to where he placed his glass, lifting it slightly in a mock salute. “Congratulations. You’ve successfully traumatized me, again.”
I blink, breathing again. “That’s . . . not the reaction I was expecting.”
He takes a slow sip, gaze never leaving mine. “I aim to disappoint.”
My heart races, and I still tingle from where his fingers touched my hair.
I’m frightened.
But I’m not even sure why.
The fear lodges under my ribs like a thorn.
I move toward the door.
I need to leave.
If I stay, I might do something stupid. Like reach for him again. Or forget I’m supposed to hate him.
Lorenzo’s gaze tracks me, slow and heavy. “Running.”
“Breathing,” I snap, turning toward the door. “There’s a difference.”
“Barely.”
I take a step and then stop. “Thank you for telling me . . .”
About the past. About its scars.
“Don’t mistake honesty for softness, Little Bird.”
I glance back, meeting his eyes for one beat. “Don’t mistake my concern for forgiveness,” I retort.
His smile is small. Dangerous. Almost proud.
I leave before either of us can say something worse.
Once I’m upstairs, I feel safe again.
Even though I shouldn’t
Because tonight, for the first time, I saw the wound beneath the surface. Which means I’m in even more danger than I thought. Because the moment you see the truth in the monster . . .
You start wondering if the monster can see the truth in you, too.