Chapter 8 – Almeria
There’s a strange calm in the days that follow the wedding. It’s not peace—not really. But it’s quieter. Measured. Like we’re all waiting for something to shatter.
The mansion is too large for comfort, too lavish for me to ever truly belong to it. But Luca… he’s blossoming.
He has definitely adjusted faster than I expected. He’s happy here. Safer. Busier. There’s a piano instructor who comes twice a week, a backyard larger than any playground we’ve seen, and a guard who teaches him to fence with foam swords.
Each morning he runs through the corridors like they’re his own personal racetrack. He names the statues in the hallways. Pretends the garden is a jungle and that he’s a knight, defending his fortress.
And Gaspare lets him.
He watches Luca with a reverence I don’t expect from a man like him. There’s no impatience in his voice when he listens to Luca ramble about imaginary battles. No stiffness when Luca climbs onto his lap to show him his newest drawing.
Sometimes I catch him smiling. Softly. Not the sharp, practiced kind he wears for the world. But the kind that sneaks out of people when they forget to guard themselves.
It unsettles me more than his silence ever did.
I spend most of my mornings alone in the sunroom. A book in hand, untouched tea on the table beside me. The quiet here has a weight. It presses in around me, reminding me constantly that I’m somewhere I was never supposed to be.
Sometimes, I hear him before I see him—his steps deliberate, slower now than before. Gaspare doesn’t announce himself. He never does. He simply appears, stands in the doorway with a cup of coffee, and watches me with those unreadable eyes.
Today, he joins me.
He doesn’t ask permission. Just takes the seat across from mine and stares out the window.
We don’t speak at first.
And then he says, “He looks like you.”
I glance at him.
“Luca.”
My chest tightens. “You expected him to look a bit more like his father?”
He flinches, and I instantly regret it.
“I’m sorry...” I begin with a sigh.
“Don’t be.”
We sit in silence for a while.
“You know,” he says after a moment, “when I was his age, I thought my father was a god.”
His tone is quiet, but there’s a shadow in it.
I lower the book. “Did he treat you like a son?”
He laughs bitterly. “He treated me like a weapon.”
The words linger.
He sets his coffee down, and for a moment, I see something unguarded in his face.
“I was nine when he showed me my first execution,” he says. “He said, ‘This is what power looks like.’ And I didn’t blink. I didn’t cry. He called me a born leader.”
I swallow. “That’s not leadership.”
“I know that now.”
His voice is calm, but I see the war behind his eyes.
“By fifteen, I’d been trained to kill, negotiate, bribe, and blackmail. I knew which of our allies would betray us eventually, and how to make an example out of the ones who tried. But I didn’t know how to sleep without locking my bedroom door.”
I want to hate him. I want to hold onto that anger I’ve nurtured for years.
But I find myself leaning forward instead.
“You grew up in it,” I say quietly. “You didn’t get a choice.”
He meets my gaze. “You did. And that’s what makes you different. That’s why you’re good for him. Luca doesn’t know fear like we did. And I never want him to.”
A strange ache settles in my chest.
“I hated you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“There were nights I dreamed about finding you, about screaming in your face. About asking you why. Why you read my diary and chose to believe I was a weapon. Why you dragged me out like I was filth.”
He closes his eyes, and I see it—that same shame I’ve seen flicker through him when he watches Luca too long.
“I was a coward,” he murmurs. “And I thought I was being clever. I thought you were sent to manipulate me. I couldn’t imagine anyone looking at me without an angle.”
My throat burns. “And then you left me there.”
He nods. “And someone else found you.”
“I told myself I didn’t need to know what happened next,” he says. “But the truth is, I’ve thought about it every day since. The alley. Your blood. Your silence.”
The tension between us crackles.
“I thought you might have been dead,” he adds, voice hoarse. “And I deserved that guilt. I still do.”
“I almost was.”
The silence after that is deafening.
He leans forward. “I’m sorry.”
And for the first time, I think he means it.
Later that night, after Luca has gone to bed and the mansion has settled into its usual quiet hum, I find myself wandering the halls. I don’t mean to. But my feet carry me toward the library again.
He’s there. Of course he is.
Seated near the fireplace, jacket discarded, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looks like something from a memory I never had.
“You can’t sleep either?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not used to this much silence.”
He nods. “It’s loud, isn’t it? The quiet.”
I move to the bookshelf, run my fingers along the spines. “I used to imagine my wedding,” I say suddenly. “A small chapel. Lace. Someone who looked at me like I wasn’t fragile or broken.”
I hear him shift in his seat.
“And now I have a mansion and a man who’s trying.”
He rises slowly. “I don’t expect forgiveness.”
“Good. Because I’m not ready to give it.”
He’s standing close now. Too close.
“But I want to understand you,” I admit.
“I want to be understood.”
We’re inches apart.
His hand reaches up. Pauses near my face.
I don’t stop him.
His fingers graze my jaw. My pulse stutters.
“You drive me insane,” he says, his voice low, rough. “And I can’t stay away.”
I should say something. Anything.
Instead, I let him kiss me.
His mouth finds mine like he’s been holding back for years.
Soft, at first. Just a brush. A question waiting for an answer.
But the second I respond—just a tilt of my head, a slight parting of my lips—he deepens the kiss with quiet hunger. Like he’s starved for something he’s never allowed himself to want. His hand cups the back of my head, cradling it like I’m fragile and precious at once. I feel the heat of his body even before he presses against me. Not aggressive—just present. Surrounding.
His other hand finds the curve of my waist, fingers grazing the fabric of my robe, anchoring me in place. The contact sends a shiver straight through my spine.
My breath hitches as his tongue brushes mine, teasing, coaxing. I shouldn’t enjoy this—I shouldn’t let him in—but God, the way he kisses… it’s reverent. Possessive. Deep.
Completely different from the kiss we shared on the altar during our wedding.
I kiss him back harder.
He groans into my mouth, and something inside me twists.
He walks us back until my spine meets the wall of bookshelves, my hands tangled in his shirt. The wood is cool behind me, but he’s hot—feverish. His mouth leaves mine only to trail fire down the column of my neck, slow and dragging, his breath warm against my skin.
“You taste like sin,” he murmurs against my collarbone.
I gasp, arching slightly as his lips find the hollow beneath my ear. He kisses there—soft, slow—and the world begins to unravel.
His hands are at my hips now, fingers curling through the fabric of my dress like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me. He doesn’t grope. Doesn’t rush. He touches me like he’s studying.
Learning.
Worshipping.
And God help me, I let him.
I pull his face back to mine and kiss him again—deeper, wetter, needier than before. My lips part around his tongue, and he drinks from me like I’m something holy. His hands slide up my sides, thumbs grazing the sides of my breasts. He doesn’t touch what he shouldn’t. But he’s close. So close.
And I want him there.
A moan slips from me before I can catch it.
His body goes rigid at the sound.
“Almeria…”
He says my name like a prayer and a plea.
His thigh presses between mine, and I move without thinking—friction sparking something molten deep in my belly. My hands move to his shoulders, my nails digging into him slightly. I can feel the heat radiating off of him in waves.
His mouth is back on mine, urgent now. Hungrier. His hands settle firmly on my waist, grounding me. Our hips nearly meet, the tension a heartbeat away from combustion.
And just then—
I remember.
Luca. This house. This arrangement. Everything we are. Everything we’re not.
“Stop,” I whisper, breathless.
His lips freeze against my jaw. Slowly, he pulls away. His chest heaves like mine.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” I cut in gently, touching his chest. “This wasn’t just you. I wanted it too. This wasn’t a mistake.”
He studies me. His hands stay where they are, not pulling me closer, not letting go.
“But I can’t let this happen again,” I say softly. “Not until I know it’s real.”
He nods, jaw tight, forehead resting briefly against mine.
“I’ll wait,” he says. “For as long as it takes.”
And I almost believe him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I got carried away.”
“No,” I murmur. “I can’t lose myself in this. Not now.”
His gaze is soft. Understanding. Pained.
“I want you,” he says. “But not if it costs you peace.”
The tears come fast. I blink them away.
“You make it hard to hate you,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says, and his smile is sad. “Because I’m not leaving.”
And for once, I don’t want him to.