Chapter 5
GIANA
I find the small library on the second floor.
It's tucked away in a quiet corner, surrounded by tall bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes and well-loved paperbacks.
The air is musty, but not unpleasant, and I find myself drawn to a particularly gothic-looking book to fit my somber mood.
I continue trying to read the book. The cover feels cool and smooth under my fingertips, its intricate details hinting at the dark tale within.
Every so often, muffled voices and laughter drift up from the first floor, accompanied by a delicious, savory aroma. My stomach growls at the thought of dinner, but my current mood makes it difficult to even think about food.
No one comes looking for me.
Why would they?
If I’m not there, they can talk about whatever it is they clearly don’t want me involved in. My presence is a complication to them, an inconvenience.
I might be Caelian’s wife, but I’ve become a wallflower in this house—someone who is seen yet not heard or spoken to. My heart aches at the thought, but the painful reality is better than pretending all is well.
I know Tobias wanted to make me feel better; even unpriestly priests want to make a person feel in a better place. But the thing is, I know why Mira and Nicoli were talking. I know why Caelian won’t share anything with me and disappears when I come into view.
They blame me.
All of them.
Except perhaps the heathen.
And the only reason he doesn’t is it’s not his job to lay blame. He talked about grief being a monster, but I think I’m the monster, in a way. Because if I weren’t here, Alexius wouldn’t be fighting for his life.
I snap the book shut.
What I need is to take the bottle of whiskey or rum or whatever it is in the drawing room, have a bath, and drink myself to oblivion.
Maybe waking up with a hangover tomorrow will distract me of yet another shitty day that’s ahead.
Rising, I leave the room, grab the bottle, and?—
“Stealing now?”
“Phone-napper,” I snarl at him. I don’t turn. I keep going, past his room to mine.
I can’t look at him. I can’t. If I do, I might crumble to dust. But he follows me, shoving his foot in the way as I go to slam the door.
Caelian barges in and pushes me against the wall, his fingers on my chin, and I drink that touch down deep. “Phone-napper?” he says, lifting a brow.
“You stole my phone.”
“Would a phone-napper not be someone who sleeps with his phone or takes them without asking? I did ask for your phone, didn’t I?”
“Not very politely.”
“Politeness is just a formality for those who doubt their charm. Besides, you secretly love it when I’m a little bold.”
I’m not going to smile . “I’m not in the mood, Caelian. Go ignore me some more.”
“I would. I want to. I do. But you stole an eight-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch.”
“Caelian…”
“My name, don’t wear it out.” He inches back, and I look down at his shirt, the tie missing.
He’s in black. I’m in black. The whole fucking world’s in black, and I want to cry. Him and his idiotic, juvenile jokes. I’ve missed them.
“Here.” I hand him the bottle.
He hands it back. “I don’t want it.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I had a feeling you were moping about.” He shrugs. “Call it an attentive husband’s intuition.”
“I call it an invasive intrusion,” I reply flatly and move to push past him. He doesn't budge, though, his arm forming a barrier in the narrow space.
“Can you blame me? You were going to drink my best scotch.”
I frown. “So, you want the scotch, then?”
“I don’t want the damn scotch.”
“Oh, my God, then what do you want?”
“You.” He freezes, and so do I. “What I meant is,” he continues slowly, “I don’t want you to drink alone. Gimme the damn scotch.” He grabs it, unscrews the cap, and takes a swig.
Everything in me is in freefall. When Father Kent told me to just talk, it sounded easy. Now, this close to him, it’s like a foreign language I don’t know.
I want to ask him if he blames me for this, like really, truly blames me. Like he means it from the bottom of his soul. And I want to know if that’s the reason he hasn’t been around, ignoring me like I’m of no importance to him.
“Caelian, I can’t?—”
“—sleep in here? Take my room. I’m never there these days.”
“Long days.”
“That have centuries in them, New York. Fucking centuries.”
Hope flickers.
This is heading into conversation territory, a real one. All the earmarks are there, chasing me over nothing, lingering. But there’s so much unsaid, and I’m too afraid to say it because he got weird after I jokingly told him I loved him.
I was being sarcastic then. We communicate in banter and jokes. But things just went downhill fast from there, and now, what’s supposed to be easy to say, isn’t. Because of that damn joke.
And it was a joke.
Wasn’t it?
Because I miss him more than I should.
Let everyone else blame me; let them whisper. Just not him. I want him to come and hold me and touch me and joke or tell me a stupid story that holds more weight than it first seems.
“Caelian,” I start, my voice too soft, “do you blame me?”
“You’ve got to be specific, because there’s a lot of shit you’re guilty of, like stealing alcohol.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You're a serial scotch thief, New York.” His voice is light, joking, but the look in his eyes isn't. It's weighted with something I can't read.
I sigh heavily, my heart pounding. “I mean do you blame me for…for what happened to Alexius?”
He doesn't say anything for a long time, just looking at me with those soulful amber eyes. “That’s a loaded question.”
“It’s not. It’s a simple yes or no.”
“Nothing about us is simple.”
“Answer the question, Caelian.”
He shoots back a mouthful of scotch, licking his lips after, while his gaze never leaves mine. “I blame us.”
“Us?”
“Yes, Giana. Us. Listen, I came after you to call you out on your thievery. Not for a couple’s therapy session.” He’s closing down, and I’m afraid if I push and prod even further this chance for a real conversation with him will slip away.
But I’m…I’m desperate. I’m tired of not knowing what’s happening between us. Each interaction feels like a guessing game, with no clear rules or outcomes. It's draining and confusing.
I step closer to him. “Do you trust me?”
“Trust is a big word, New York.”
“Do you?”
He takes another large gulp of scotch and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I trust that you will do anything to keep the ones you love safe.”
“I would, yes.”
“Even betray others.” It’s not a question, and confusion sets in.
“I have no idea what you’re getting at, but I would never say a thing to my dad about Alexius. I will never betray you or your family, despite what they might think.”
His hand is in his hair now, his face long lines of exhaustion. “Everything is just so fucked-up right now. Complicated. And I don’t do complicated, New York.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” My heart constricts. “If you’ll just talk to me.”
“We’re famous for that, aren’t we? Talking.”
A smile flits on my mouth for a moment. “We’ve had a volatile relationship, I know. But despite it, I’m here.” I wait until he meets my gaze properly. “If you need me, Caelian. I’m here. I literally have nowhere else to go.”
His eyes darken, then there’s a spark, a slight flutter of emotion.
Something stirs and ignites in the pit of my stomach. It's a tiny flame at first, but it spreads through me, reaching upward, filling every crevice.
It’s the look on his face that does it. It’s something between weariness and hunger, like he’s afraid to give in. But the craving is there, the thirst, the hankering, and I so much want him to give in to it.
Can this stubborn, hot-headed, beautiful Del Rossa just be weak for one freakin’ second so he can lose control with me?
Silence looms heavily in the room, the palpable tension tightening like a dancing flame between us.
His gaze remains fixed on mine, probing, searching for something I hope he finds.
He takes a step closer, and I hold my breath, too scared to hope. Too scared to anticipate. I’m not sure I can take the disappointment again. My emotions are too raw, my heart too vulnerable.
I should move away, break the spell, and not risk it. But my breath, my pulse, the flow of my blood is tethered to him, leaving me unable to move.
With a gentle touch, he slides his hand on my cheek, and he comes in close, blocking out the light behind him. It’s all him. Everything is him. There is nothing else. Not here, not now. Just him.
I close my eyes, and a soft sob escapes me when his lips brush mine, sending showers of sparks sky high and making my knees weak.
A tear escapes, the relief of finally feeling his kiss again both soothing and painful. And it lingers. Tender. Yet overwhelming. It’s a kiss that speaks of everything words can’t say—of love, and desire, and longing, of pain endured and relief savored.
It’s a kiss that holds me together and pulls me apart all at once, leaving me breathless, shaken, and utterly consumed by him.
He pulls back, but not far, his thumb tracing the contour of my cheek, and I’m so swept up in the moment, in him, so desperate I lift on my toes and reach for him, wanting to kiss him again. But he inches backward, dropping his hand and kicking my heart hard as he steps away further.
“Goddammit, New York,” he says, frustration now suddenly laced around every word. “I…this… fuck!”
“What, Caelian?” I plead. “Talk to me, please.”
“I don’t talk, Giana. I don’t open up. I don’t share whatever the fuck it is I’m feeling. I don’t go around baring my soul to anyone who’ll listen. I make jokes. I talk shit. I fucking deflect, and I…” He stops, wild irises flaring with an intensity that sends shudders down my spine.
“And what?” I press, even though all the warnings bells are chiming inside my chest, afraid of what he might say next.
Caelian straightens, that familiar mask of resolve slipping back in place. “And I…I never should have married you.”
Something inside me breaks. It snaps, and I strike him across the face. The sharp sound of the slap reverberates through the room, creating an echo that seems to go on forever.
His face barely moves, taking the hit with a stoic acceptance that slices deeper into my heart than any weapon could.
I see a flicker of something in his eyes. Regret? Remorse? But I’m too hurt to care.
“Get out,” I say, his gaze not wavering from mine. “I said get out!”
With a final glance, he turns and leaves. The slam of the door is a gut-punch, a final note on our symphony of disaster.
I sink to my knees, hot tears welling up and spilling over. The loneliness that sets in is paralyzing.
I’ve never been more alone. My chest is filled with a bitter emptiness that sucks the warmth from my veins.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I am utterly and hopelessly lost.