Chapter 28 #3
Her words hang in the air, jagged and impossible, and I feel it—the need to protect herself, to hold the pieces together, even as every shred of her betrays her desire for me.
She’s furious, yes, but beneath it, I can feel the tremor in her pulse, the hesitation in her fight, the electric pull of the forbidden fire between us.
“You can’t just walk back into my life like you never left,” she says, voice shaking, “when in a few months you’ll be giving her your last name, replacing my ring with hers. It’s cruel of you to even show up here now.”
My breath catches—sharp, involuntary, and cruel.
Yeah. I earned that.
But the way she says it—like the words hurt her on the way out, like she’s been carrying them around just waiting for the chance to bleed—cuts deeper than any bullet I’ve ever taken.
This is the moment Jonathan warned me about. The one where silence is safer. Where I keep the line clean, keep her out of it until we know more.
Fuck that.
Fuck caution. Fuck secrets. Fuck doing this the way I’m supposed to.
I’m tired of choosing strategy over her and calling it protection. I’m tired of watching her brace for a future that doesn’t exist anymore.
If I don’t tell her now, I’ll lose her for good.
I step closer, just enough for her to feel the heat coming off me. “You think I don’t know that?” My voice comes out low, worn down to the bone. “You think I don’t wake up every goddamn day choking on it?”
She scoffs, brittle. Her fingers curl at her sides, torn between striking me or grabbing me. “Matt, you’re engaged. You stood there and let them cast me out. And now you want to tell me you regret it?”
“I don’t regret it,” I say, fast and rough. “And I’m not engaged anymore.”
The words land between us like a dropped glass.
Her breath stutters. Her head jerks back a fraction, eyes searching my face like she’s waiting for the punchline.
“What?” she whispers.
I shake my head sharply. “It’s over. There is no wedding.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and charged.
“You’re lying,” she says finally, but there’s no heat in it, just disbelief. “You don’t get to rewrite reality because it suits you now.”
“I’m not rewriting anything,” I say, my voice cracking open.
“I’m telling you the truth. The wedding isn’t happening.
” I swallow hard. “And I don’t regret that night.
I regret everything that led to it. Every second I let fear make my choices.
Every moment I let you walk away thinking I didn’t want you.
” My chest tightens. “I regret being a coward.”
Her jaw wavers, not softening, not forgiving, but cracking.
“And the contract?” she asks quietly. Too quietly.
“That was never what I wanted, you know that,” I rasp, stepping closer. “It was Mafia politics. Nothing more, and now it’s not even that.”
I lift my hand slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wants to.
“The only ring I’ve ever wanted to wear is this one.”
The skull ring catches the faint light as I tilt my hand, metal worn from years of touch.
Her ring. Her mark. The only truth I’ve carried.
“Where it belongs,” I murmur.
My hand hovers between us, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off my skin. Slowly I reach out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. Her breath stutters—small, sharp, and involuntary—as she catches the touch, and for a heartbeat, the chaos between us stills.
“Lily,” I say softly, “I didn’t come here expecting forgiveness. I came here knowing you might slam the door in my face. Scream at me. Kick me out.”
I meet her eyes and hold them. I need her to see I mean every word I’m saying.
“I’d take all of it,” I add quietly. “Gladly.”
Her chin trembles once before she steels it. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I know. But staying away was costing me you.”
Her eyes flicker—fear, fury, longing, exhaustion—tangled into something that feels like an inevitable collision.
“And I’m not walking away,” I vow, my voice dropping to something dangerous. “Not when you still look at me like this. Not when I can feel how much you wish things were different.”
Her breath hitches. Her fingers twitch.
She hates that I’m right.
I hate that I’m right.
“But you don’t get to pretend this doesn’t matter,” I continue, stepping close enough that my chest almost brushes hers. “Call me cruel. Call me the villain in your story. Tell me you never want to see me again.”
Her throat bobs.
“But don’t lie to me about one thing,” I whisper, leaning in, letting my breath ghost her skin.
“Don’t you dare pretend this”—my hand lands gently on the wall beside her head, caging without touching—“doesn’t still burn you alive.”
Her eyes meet mine again and for a split heartbeat, her walls drop, the room tilts, and the air turns thick enough to drown in. My chest hammers like it’s trying to break free. My pulse roars like thunder in my ears.
I want to close the distance.
I want to touch her.
I want to claim her in ways I have no right to even imagine.
The thought alone sets my whole body ablaze.
We stand there, two storms in one too-small space—her anger and grief colliding with my obsession and guilt. What’s forbidden between us, what’s inevitable, presses in tight, suffocating, electric.
My body aches for her.
My mind begs for restraint.
And still, with a terrifying certainty, I know nothing she says, nothing she does, will stop me from needing her—wanting her—in ways I can’t, and shouldn’t, name aloud.