Chapter Twelve - Lira #2
“Severo…” I whisper his name under my breath like a prayer, like a curse, like a promise.
The pulse of pleasure tightens low in my belly as I picture him again.
The sound of my own moan echoes in the steam, and I don’t care.
I work my fingers faster, the heel of my palm grinding down for pressure, legs spread slightly as I brace against the wall.
My other hand comes up to pinch my nipple, and my back arches into the sensation, my hips rolling helplessly into every stroke.
“Please—” I gasp, even though he isn’t here. Even though the only one touching me is me.
But it doesn’t matter, not when I can feel him in every pulse of heat inside me. Not when my body still feels stretched, marked, claimed.
I picture him standing in that doorway again, shirt unbuttoned, jaw tight, eyes fixed on me like I was a meal.
My body tightens, and then it hits — the rush of release ripping through me like a tidal wave, sudden and unstoppable.
I cry out as I come, thighs trembling, cunt pulsing around nothing but memory.
The water pounds against my skin as I ride it out, shuddering, braced against the tile like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
I collapse back against the wall, chest heaving, lips parted as I breathe him out in shaky exhales. My hand drops away slowly, fingers slick, thighs soaked from more than just the water.
****
The robe clings damp to my collarbones. I cinch it tightly at the waist, the cotton heavy from steam. My cheeks are flushed, but not from the water anymore.
The mirror is fogged.
I wipe a small oval in the glass, just enough to catch my own reflection. My lips are parted. My lashes damp. The woman staring back looks like she just learned a secret and hasn’t decided if it’s a blessing or a curse.
I step out of the bathroom, bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. The hotel room feels dimmer now. Softer.
Mico is sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, scrolling absently through something on his phone. The muscles in his back shift as he looks up—and the moment he sees me, he stands.
He crosses the room in two strides and wraps his arms around me. The scent of clean skin and the faintest trace of his cologne folds around me like memory.
“I love you, Lira,” he murmurs into my hair.
His voice is low. Certain.
My body reacts before my mind does—shoulders lifting subtly, throat catching.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his fingers brushing my cheek. “When we get to Italy,” he says, “let’s get married.”
There was a time those words would have lit me up from the inside. I would’ve cried. I would’ve believed.
Now they feel like someone else’s fantasy. One I don’t know how to wear anymore.
I lift the corners of my lips into something that passes for a smile. “We’ll talk about it properly later,” I say gently.
He nods, but he studies me—his eyes searching for something behind the smile. Then he reaches for my chin, tilts it up with two fingers, and leans in. His lips hover above mine. Slow. Careful. Waiting.
I turn my face to the side.
His kiss lands softly against my cheek.
“I’m not ready,” I say, barely above a whisper.
A pause.
He nods. “I understand. I’ll wait.”
He touches my cheek one more time, then steps away and heads into the bathroom.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
When the door closes behind him, I cross the room slowly and climb into the bed. The mattress dips beneath me.
The silence grows thick.
I sink into the pillows, staring at the ceiling. My hand brushes the spot where Mico kissed me—still warm, still tender —but all I can hear is Severo’s voice curling around my ribs like smoke.
“I can satisfy you.”
The words crawl back into my thoughts uninvited.
I close my eyes. My knees curl toward my chest. I groan, a sound caught between shame and hunger and press my face into the pillow.
I don’t want this.
I don’t want to want this.
But I do.
****
Morning filters in through the thick hotel curtains, a muted grey light that softens the corners of the room. I wake slowly, the sheets tangled around my legs, warm from the weight of sleep. I blink into the quiet and roll onto my back, letting my eyes adjust.
The other side of the room is empty.
The blanket on the floor where Mico slept last night is folded neatly, his pillow stacked beside it.
I sit up and stretch, pushing my fingers through my hair. My shoulders ache faintly. My thighs more so. The memory makes my stomach twist—not from shame, but from something far more complicated.
Just as my feet touch the carpet, the door clicks.
Mico steps in, phone in one hand, a paper cup of coffee in the other. He looks relaxed. Familiar. Like the boy who used to walk me home from school when Marco was late. He sees me and smiles, and that boy is right there again.
“Hey,” he says softly.
He sets the coffee on the nightstand, steps forward, and wraps his arms around me from behind.
His warmth presses into my spine. His lips brush the side of my neck in a kiss so gentle I might have imagined it.
I flinch.
It’s small, instinctive—but real.
He feels it.
I step forward quickly, pretending to grab the coffee. “Sorry,” I mumble, not turning around. “You startled me. I just woke up.”
There’s a pause.
I turn and glance at him.
His expression shifts—just slightly. That kind of expressionless mask people wear when they’re trying not to seem hurt. His mouth twitches at the corner like he’s swallowing a thought.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “You feel… distant this morning.”
I force a laugh. “I’m just jumpy,” I say, lifting the cup to my lips even though it’s too hot to sip. “Didn’t sleep great.”
I look up and smile at him, making sure my eyes crinkle just enough to look convincing. He watches me for a second longer, then smiles back—small, unsure, but accepting it.
“I get it,” he says quietly. “It’s been a long couple of days.”
“Exactly,” I reply, taking a pretend sip. “Just a lot.”
He perks up as I set the coffee back down, and I watch a familiar glint return to his eyes—something bordering on hope. His hand slips into his back pocket, pulling out his phone again.
“I have good news,” he says, the tone in his voice warm and eager, like he’s about to unwrap a gift for me. “I called in a few favors. Spoke with friends at the embassy. We can have new passports ready in a few hours.”
He grins, full and bright, as if this single act could wipe the last few days off the map. “We’ll be on a flight to Italy by evening.”
My lips part slowly. “That fast?”
He nods. “Yeah. No need to go back to your apartment either. Anything you need, we’ll buy it new. Clean slate. Fresh start.”
His words tumble out like reassurance, but it all feels fast. Like someone covering a wound before checking if it’s still bleeding.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking beneath me. “But… my documents. My music stuff. Journals. Birth records. My brother’s—” I stop myself. My chest tightens.
He crouches down in front of me, hands resting on my knees, steady and gentle.
“Nicola can get them,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “She has your keys, right? I’ll call her. She can pack up everything and ship it to us.”
A small flicker sparks in my chest. Nicola.
I blink.
It’s the first time I’ve thought of her since everything happened. Her laugh. The chipped nail polish. The way she used to hum to my practice scales while doing her makeup in the dressing room.
“How do you know her? Can I see her?” I ask, the words leaving me before I fully form them. “I should talk to her. Tell her I’m okay.”
Mico’s mouth tightens for the briefest moment. Not a grimace, not quite hesitation—but a pause. Then he softens his expression again, tilting his head.
“I’ll tell you everything later. And of course you’ll see her,” he says. “I’ll fly her over to Italy. First-class. But we just need to leave first, Lira. It’s not safe here anymore.”
He reaches for my hands again and laces our fingers. “Please. Just trust me.”
I look down at our joined hands.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles in slow, comforting circles, and I feel the strength in his grip—reassuring, steady
“I want you to know how serious I am,” he says softly. I freeze as he produces a ring from his pocket
He reaches for my left hand. My fingers hesitate.
Still, I let him take it.
His touch is gentle, but my hand feels limp inside his. He slides the ring on slowly, deliberately, like he’s sealing something fragile. And when the metal settles against my skin, he leans in and presses a kiss to my knuckles.
“I love you, Lira,” he says, looking up into my face.
I don’t know what my expression is doing, but something in it makes his smile falter.
“I know we’ve been through a lot,” he adds, trying to steady the moment. “But we’re getting out. This is the end of it. No more chaos.”
I try to smile his phone rings and the moment passes. He looks at the phone and then tucks it into his back pocket and turns to me, his hands bracing the edge of the desk behind him.
“I need to head out for a bit,” he says, eyes lifting to meet mine. “Just to Kangaroo Island. I’ve got some things stashed there that we might need for the trip—documents, contacts. I’ll head straight to the embassy from there.”
He steps toward me again, slower . “I’ll be back by morning. We’ll fly out right after.”
My spine stiffens—just a little. Not out of fear. But something in me flinches at the word we , at how confidently he says it, like the decision’s already made.
“Will you be okay here?” he asks, studying me carefully.
His voice lowers into that tone he uses when he's worried but trying not to sound controlling. “I don’t trust him, Lira. I don’t trust what he might try. Don’t answer the door for anyone. Don’t leave the room, okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, pushing a smile to my lips. “It’s just a hotel room.”