Chapter Twelve - Lira
Dantès Estate, Private Wing
The sheets are cool against my skin.
I lie curled on my side, one leg tangled around his, the other stretched out against the ripple of silk. The scent of him lingers on my shoulder, earthy and faintly spiced, threaded into the spaces between my ribs like heat.
The blindfold rests between my fingers—thin black lace, soft and still warm. I trace the edge where it had brushed my cheeks, remembering the way it felt as he tied it on. Not tight. Never rough. Like it was a ribbon, not a restraint.
He lies beside me, his chest rising with each breath.
The light from the ceiling slips across his torso, casting a pale shadow beneath his collarbone.
He’s lean, built like a man who doesn’t chase strength but possesses it anyway.
There’s a quiet kind of confidence in the way his body rests, like he’s never needed to prove himself.
My eyes roam over him.
And desire stirs again. Uninvited. Unavoidable.
He looks at me.
I don’t glance away.
Instead, I meet his gaze and whisper, “Thank you.”
His brow lifts just slightly. “For what?”
“For keeping your word,” I say. “You satisfied me.”
The corner of his mouth pulls upward—not a smirk, not quite a smile. Something in between. He shifts, turning toward me, his hand brushing against my hip.
“So, you accept my offer?” he asks.
I don’t answer right away. My fingers still play with the lace as I stare at him. Something about his face—serene, expectant—makes me ache and recoil at the same time.
“I want to,” I say quietly. “But I’m a coward.”
He doesn’t blink. “No, you’re not.”
“I am,” I reply, a little more firmly. “I don’t know this world.”
“I’ll teach you,” he says without hesitation.
“And then what?” I ask, pulling myself closer, our faces only a breath apart.
His hand lingers on the curve of my thigh. “Then I’ll be with you.”
My heart flutters—, hard—like a winged thing that doesn’t trust its cage.
“And what if you get tired,” I murmur, “like all men do?”
He starts to speak. “If this is about him—”
But I cut in, sharper than I mean to.
“No,” I say. “This is about me knowing what Mico will do. He’ll keep me safe. That’s my choice.”
“You’re a wild ride I’m not up for,” I say, voice soft but certain.
He doesn’t respond.
I place the blindfold in his hand.
He closes his fingers around it slowly, his gaze still resting on me.
I slip from the bed and find my dress folded neatly on a chaise by the window. The fabric feels colder than it should against my skin as I pull it back over my body. Behind me, I hear him move. No rush. No words. Just the quiet, composed rustle of someone dressing with intention.
When I turn around, he’s clothed. Black shirt. Slacks. As if none of it touched him.
We stand across from each other, and something about it feels… formal.
I stretch out my hand between us.
“Thank you,” I say. “For a wonderful afternoon.”
He chuckles—not mocking, not smug. Just… amused. And then he takes my hand.
But he doesn’t shake it.
He brings it to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. His lips brush just above my knuckles, lingering for a second too long. When he lifts his head, his eyes are still on mine.
“I’ll be waiting for you to come back,” he says.
My heart skips.
He lifts his hand to my face and smooths a strand of hair behind my ear. I tilt my head slightly, involuntarily, drawn to the tenderness of the gesture.
He’s taller than me by far. Standing this close, I have to tip my chin up to meet his eyes. His presence wraps around me like heat rising from stone—quiet, patient, inescapable.
My chest tightens.
I don’t want to walk away.
But I do.
He opens the door, and we step into a wide, column-lined corridor flooded with late afternoon light. His hand rests gently at my lower back—not guiding, not forcing. Just… there. It makes my chest shallow. My skin feels warmer where he touches me.
I want him to keep it there.
But I also want to run.
We reach the main wing. He doesn’t say anything more. Neither do I.
Outside, just past the stone archway, I spot Mico standing under the shade of a cypress. A cigarette burns low between his fingers. His eyes catch mine immediately, scanning my face.
I step away from Severo’s touch just before we reach the threshold.
I force myself to.
But the ghost of his hand still lingers across my spine.
Mico straightens the second he sees me. His eyes dart from my face to Severo, then back again. He doesn’t speak. Just waits.
“Let’s go,” I say.
My voice doesn’t tremble, but everything else does.
Mico steps forward and places a hand gently on my shoulder, shielding me slightly as if afraid Severo might try to stop me. He doesn’t. Severo stays behind, still as stone, watching.
Mico guides me down the wide stone steps and through the open doors.
The warmth of the sun brushes my skin as we leave the house behind. The garden lies silent, all the roses suddenly looking like painted things. Beautiful. Unreal. I keep my gaze ahead, even though every part of me wants to glance over my shoulder. Just to see if he’s still standing there.
But I don’t.
I climb into the car.
Mico closes the door gently behind me, then circles to the driver’s side. He slides into the seat, glancing at me sideways.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he places his hand over mine. His palm is warm and calloused, fingers steady. A comfort. A promise.
I close my eyes for a breath as he starts the engine.
We pull away from the estate, the road rising and falling beneath us in quiet waves. The trees lining the drive grow thinner with each bend.
And still, I don’t look back.
Even though a part of me aches to.
Even though I can feel Severo’s gaze on my skin, long after he's out of sight.
****
The car ride back is quiet. Mico doesn’t touch the radio. I don’t ask him to.
The streets blur past the windows in soft streaks of orange and dull silver. A tram rattles by; lights flickering. Somewhere along Lygon, a group of students cross the road laughing—one of them playing a harmonica off-key. I watch them until they disappear in the rearview mirror.
Mico taps the code into the door lock when we reach the room. The sound is sharp .
He opens the door and steps aside to let me in first. The lights are dim. He’s drawn the curtains. The room smells faintly of his aftershave and the hotel’s linen spray. Familiar now, somehow.
He helps me sit at the edge of the bed, one hand still hovering near my back as if unsure whether I’ll collapse or bolt.
“I was so worried,” he says, pulling me gently into his chest.
His arms wrap around me. I don’t resist. I let myself lean against him.
“I just wanted to hear him out,” I murmur into his shirt.
I feel his breath stutter against my temple.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “What did he tell you?”
I open my mouth. The words line up inside me, but none of them make it past my lips. I shake my head.
He softens, brushing a hand down my arm. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything tonight.”
He stands, moves to the side table, and opens one of the drawers. “There’s towels in the bathroom. You can shower. When you’re ready, just rest. Tomorrow we’ll head back to your old place, gather your things, then work on your passport.”
I nod, but I don’t move yet.
“Can we stay in Australia?” I ask, finally.
He stops folding the towel. Looks at me. “No.”
“Why not?”
He exhales slowly, placing the towel down. “Because it’s not safe.”
He pauses. Chooses his words carefully.
“You’re too weak to defend yourself, Lira. It’s not going to be good for you.”
My spine stiffens. I look at him—not in confusion, but in something far closer to insult.
“Too weak?” I ask. My voice comes out low and dry.
He realizes immediately. His hand lifts, palm up, like he’s trying to reel it back.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean you’re—Lira, I just meant I don’t want you in danger. You’ve been through too much. You need rest, not another battlefield.”
But I’m already standing.
I walk past him before he can reach for me again. My feet carry me to the bathroom, but not because I want to shower.
Because I need space. Because I can’t breathe with him trying to patch me up and hold me still in the same moment.
The door closes behind me with more force than I intend. I don’t lock it. But I hope he knows not to follow.
The bathroom is cold and clinical. Hotel lighting always feels like interrogation. I turn the tap and steam begins to cloud the glass.
I strip silently, step into the shower, and let the water run over me. I don’t move to adjust it. The sting feels earned.
My hands press against the tiled wall.
And the tears come.
Not sobs. Not whimpers. Just a stream of heat, the kind that doesn’t make sound.
He was right.
Not about the danger.
About the weakness.
Even with Mico— especially with Mico—I am still that girl clutching many pills in a locked bathroom, hoping the knock on the door comes late.
I tilt my head back, eyes fluttering shut, letting the spray soak through my hair, down my neck, over my breasts. My body is sore in that deeply satisfied, unmistakably fucked way — thighs aching, wrists still marked faintly from where he tied me down.
I press my palm to the tile behind me and slide the other hand up to cup my breast. My nipple tightens instantly under my touch, still tender from where his mouth had latched onto it just hours ago. I rub slow circles with my thumb, biting back a moan as the memory hits me all over again.
I slide my hand lower, across the slope of my belly, until I reach my mound.
I’m already aching there — swollen, slick from the memory alone.
My fingers glide through folds that are still sore, still wet, and I gasp as I find that sensitive little spot just above my entrance.
I rub slow, then faster, pressing in little circles that make my knees weak under the rush of water.