8. Valaria
Valaria
Idon’t sleep.
Not because of the fire. Not because of the mission briefing at dawn or the burnt circuits in the villa’s comms panel.
I don’t sleep because I kissed Pietro—again.
Because I let him kiss me.
Because when I close my eyes, I still feel the scrape of his stubble on my skin, the brutal honesty of his mouth against mine. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
It was survival. Fire meeting fire. Lust with teeth.
And I liked it.
Too much.
I splash cold water on my face, stare at myself in the gilded bathroom mirror. My lips are still swollen. My pulse won’t behave. I feel unmoored, like the earth has tilted beneath my feet.
This isn’t me. I don’t unravel over a man. I don’t lose control. I am control.
Except when he touches me.
I pull a robe over my nightgown and pad barefoot down the hall—hoping to find something stronger than hot milk. The villa is dark, silent but for the occasional creak of stone and timber cooling after the blaze. The scent of smoke still clings to the air.
The dimly lit hallway stretches before me. My mind races. The implications of our compromised position weigh heavy, but my heart pounds with a different kind of urgency.
His door is open.
A light flickers inside—dim, golden, tempting.
I should walk past.
I don’t.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed shirtless, with his back to me. A dragon’s wings spread across his shoulders. Its scaly body and strong legs cover his spine. Its tail curls up. He’s bandaging the gash on his forearm.
The room smells like salt and sweat and something warm I can’t name. His tousled hair is shot with gold, and his jaw shadowed with stubble, giving him a rugged, vulnerable edge.
His sharp eyes meet mine. For a moment, neither of us speak, the tension between us thickens the air.
“Did you call the med tech?” I ask.
He glances up. “Didn’t want to bother anyone.”
Of course not. Pietro bleeds in private. That’s his style.
I step inside. Close the door. Pick up the antiseptic.
“Sit still.”
He does. I clean the cut in silence, aware of every breath he takes. The air is heavy with heated restraint. I feel him watching me, always watching me.
“You came to my room,” he says quietly.
“To treat your wound,” I reply.
“You’re good at this,” Pietro murmurs. “Taking care of people.”
“I’m not.
“That’s not what Emma says.”
“Emma’s different. And you aren’t people, you’re an operative.” I look away. My cheeks flush. “It’s part of the job,” I say, my voice steady despite the chaos in my chest.
“Not in my case,” he says.
“Tell me about your tattoo? It’s rather large, don’t you think?”
“That dragon’s always got my back. It’s his ferocity, I bear.”
“Oh.” That's all I can manage.
He catches my wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make my breath catch. His touch is electric.
“You’re more than just a partner to me, Valaria.” His voice is low and intense. “You know that don’t you?”
I should pull away, should remind him of the rules, of the consequences.
“We can’t,” I whisper, hearing my lack of conviction.
Pietro’s hand tightens around my wrist, pulling me closer. “Why not?” he asks, his voice husky with desire. “We’re both here. We’re both alive. Isn’t that enough?”
“We’re not supposed to do this. You know that.”
“I do know that. I’m not much of a rule follower. Neither are you.”
I know it’s true. We’re two of a kind. The kind that should never be in the same room.
“Let go of my wrist.” Pietro loosens his grip, places my hand on the flat of his palm.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
We lock eyes. And for one impossible moment, the world disappears. The mission. The kingdom. Everything but the maddening gravity between us.
“This is a mistake,” I whisper.
“I know.”
His mouth finds mine. Smoldering embers, less fire—more surrender. Pietro wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer, erasing the distance between us. His hands slide under my robe—roam the shape of my body beneath my nightgown with a desperation that mirrors my own.
There’s no more pretending. No cover story to hide behind. Just want. And maybe… something more.
The robe slips from my shoulders. He pulls my nightgown over my head. Tosses it to the floor.
His eyes appraise my body. I do not demur. I revel in his gaze.
I shiver as his lips trail down my neck, grazing my skin with his teeth.
“Valaria, tell me to stop. Tell me this is another mistake.”
“It is, but. . .”
“Do you want this? Want me?”
I push him back. “Too many questions.”
Pietro’s gaze softens, his hands cup my face as he kisses me again, deeper this time. Our pent-up emotions ignite the passion we cannot control.
We wrestle him out of his trousers, his shorts. He stands before me chiseled. Tight.
Hardened with uncontrollable desire.
We fall onto the bed like it’s a war we both want to lose.
His weight presses me into the mattress as his fingers slip between my thighs, finding my core, already wet with anticipation. Before slipping inside, his thumb brushes against my clitoris in a rhythm that sends me close to the edge.
He withdraws his hand, his eyes dark with desire. He reaches for my breasts. Teases my nipples with his tongue until I moan. The warmth of his mouth surrounds one nipple—sucks gently. He pays attention to both—pinching one while he teases the other with his tongue—driving me mad with desire.
He positions himself between my thighs. I open to him—wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, my body aching for the connection I crave. He thrusts his hardness into me slowly—filling me completely. Our eyes lock as we begin to move.
The rhythm is steady at first, each thrust deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Our passion becomes urgent, desperate. My nails dig into his back as he pounds into me—deeper each time. Pietro’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his body glistening with sweat as he loses himself in the sensation.
“Valaria, I’m so close.” His eyes plead for me to grant him release.
“Not yet,” I plead.
He rolls me on top of him. I sit up pushing him deeper inside me. He leans back with one arm tucked under his head—assessing me. He places his thumb on my clitoris and rubs gently.
“By the gods you’re beautiful.”
My core tightens around him. He reaches up to pinch my nipples—gently at first—harder as I plead for more. My orgasm builds like a storm on the horizon until my head lolls back. My release washes over me in waves.
Pietro watches. . .waits as I rise.
He grins as if taking credit for my orgasm. Not that he should ever know, but it’s my first in ever so long.
“Now?” he asks.
“Now.”
Pietro’s eyes never leave mine as he rolls me on top of him—gently like something precious, breakable.
His thrusts become harder, faster, moments later, his body stiffens as he spills, my name a whisper on his lips. And I orgasm again. Harder. More intense than before.
Still joined, Pietro rests his head on mine, his eyes closed as if he’s savoring the aftermath of our passion.
We lay tangled in sheets and silence, heartbeats slowing, skin damp and warm and trembling.
Unbidden memories flash through my mind. Other men. Casual relationships. Nothing like Pietro.
Misgivings. A sudden dread grips me.
I’ve never lost my heart—I refuse to lose it now.
I brush his lips with mine. “This never happened.”
He exhales a laugh. “You’re adorable when you lie.”
I should push him away—go back to my room.
But I stay.
Which terrifies me more than the flames ever did.