Chapter 12
Birdie
I wake up not knowing where I’m at.
The ceiling above me isn’t familiar. The light is dim, filtered through heavy curtains. My throat feels like sandpaper, and every part of my body aches, sharp in some places, dull in others.
Movement catches my eye. Rosa sits beside the bed, her hands folded tightly in her lap as she stares out the window. Why does she look so stressed, I wonder. When she realizes I’m awake, she lets out a small gasp and jumps to her feet.
“Oh, my heavens,” she says, voice trembling with relief. “You had us very worried.”
“What happened?” My voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.
“Your wound got infected.” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes soft with lingering worry. “You were delirious with fever for days. Mr. Conti was very worried. We all were.” She stands. “I’ll get him. He’ll want to know you’re awake.”
She leaves, but all I can think about is what she said.
Mr. Conti.
The name lands heavy, sinking through me like a stone dropped into deep water. It feels too formal and too distant for a man whose hands I remember steady on my skin, anchoring me to the world when everything inside me was unraveling.
I blink, trying to pull the pieces together. The memories come slow and thick, slipping in at strange angles.
I remember heat—blistering, suffocating heat.
The way the bedding stuck to my skin.
The ceiling tilting and melting at the edges.
Shadows crawling across the walls.
I remember my breath catching, the room spinning, the sharp punch of pain in my side before everything went black.
And then—
Him.
The only steady thing in the storm.
I remember calling out for him, voice hoarse, reaching for something I wasn’t even fully conscious of. I remember cool hands against my burning skin, grounding me. Hearing low words I couldn’t understand but clung to anyway.
My dreams had been dark and twisted, a maze of fear and burning fever.
But he was always there. Pulling me back. Holding me together. Keeping me tethered to a world I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay in.
I glance around, suddenly aware of the rich scent in the air — leather, smoke, and something distinctly him. The bed beneath me is too large, the sheets too soft. My pulse skips.
Am I in his room?
I don’t have time to process the thought because the door bursts open.
And there he is.
Lorenzo fills the doorway like a force of nature. He’s unshaven with shadows beneath his eyes, his white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. The look on his face steals the air from my lungs.
“Thank God,” he breathes, the words rough and unguarded.
I try to sit up, but the movement sends pain shooting through my side. He’s there in an instant, crossing the room with that quiet urgency that always makes people move out of his way.
“Don’t try to move, cara,” he murmurs, one hand hovering near my shoulder but not quite touching. “You need to save your strength.”
Honestly, I’ve already come to that conclusion myself.
“How long have I been out?” I manage.
“Three days.”
Three days. My stomach twists. That explains the dryness in my throat, the fog in my head.
“May I have some water?”
“Of course.” His tone softens, almost tender.
He reaches for the glass on the nightstand, pours fresh water from a crystal carafe, and turns back to me. I expect him to hand it over. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed and holds the glass to my lips.
“Slowly,” he murmurs.
The rim of the glass is cool against my mouth. I take small sips, each one easing the burn in my throat. His hand is steady, his gaze unwavering.
“Better?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out small. “Thank you.”
He nods, setting the glass aside. His mouth opens like he wants to say more, but nothing comes out.
I look away, needing distance, but the sight that meets me makes my pulse spike all over again.
There’s a chair near the bed. A heavy leather one that wasn’t there before. A blanket, wrinkled and thrown over the back, and a half-empty glass of whiskey on the table beside it. Someone’s been sleeping there.
In the corner, I spot the nightshirt I wore days ago, folded neatly on a chair. My skin prickles. I’m clean now. Fresh bandages. Fresh clothes.
Did he…?
When I look back at him, the exhaustion in his face tells me everything without a single word spoken.
His beard is darker, rougher—more shadow than grooming, like he hasn’t bothered to shave in days.
The sharp lines of his jaw look harsher for it.
His eyes… God, his eyes. They’re hollowed from lack of sleep, bruised at the edges, the kind of tired that doesn’t come from one bad night but from carrying too much for too long.
He looks like a man who’s been fighting sleep, fighting grief, and mostly fighting himself. A man who hasn’t left my side since the fever took me under. A man who’s breaking quietly, privately, in the spaces no one else sees.
And when his gaze finally meets mine, it hits me how much of that breaking was because of me.
“I was very worried about you,” he says quietly, as if sensing my thoughts.
The words land heavier than they should. There’s something too raw in his tone to be just concern.
I don’t know what to say to that. So I don’t.
Instead, I turn my gaze to the window, to the pale light seeping through the curtains. Outside, the city hums quietly, unaware that my world keeps folding itself around this man.
He exhales slowly, then reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. His touch is careful, almost reverent.
“Rest,” he says softly. “You’re safe.”
I want to believe him. God, I do. But the longer I look at him—the man who carries violence in his veins like oxygen—the more I wonder what safe really means anymore.
Moonlight filters through the curtains when I wake again. The penthouse is quiet. For a moment I think I’m alone, but then I catch the faint scrape of a chair and the whisper of fabric.
He’s still here.
Lorenzo sits in the corner, half-shadowed, a book closed on his lap. His tie is gone, his shirt undone at the throat. When our eyes meet, something flickers in his. Relief, maybe, or something heavier.
“You should be asleep,” he murmurs.
“So should you.” My voice is faint but steadier than before.
He stands, crossing to the bed. The lamplight hits his face, carving soft gold into the hard lines. He stops beside me, looking down like he’s making sure I’m really still breathing.
“I wanted to make sure the fever didn’t return,” he says.
“You’ve been here this whole time?”
He nods once. “I couldn’t leave.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I reach for the blanket instead, fingers brushing his hand by accident. His skin is warm. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
“You should rest,” he says, though his voice sounds rougher now.
“I’m tired of resting.”
He gives a small, humorless laugh and sits on the edge of the mattress. The silence between us stretches, full of things we both feel but won’t name.
“Why do you do this?” I ask softly. “Why did you take care of me? I’m sure you could have found someone else to do it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, “Because I failed her. I won’t fail you too.”
My chest tightens. “I’m not Sienna.”
“I know.”
The words are simple, but the weight behind them steals the air from the room.
He reaches out then, brushing his thumb gently across my cheek, catching a strand of hair that’s fallen loose. The touch is light but it burns right to my heart.
“You should sleep,” he whispers.
This time, when I close my eyes, I feel his presence beside me. Not touching. Just there. And somehow, that’s enough.
I meet Dr. Lars the next morning. He adjusts the IV line he started when he first saw me before checking my pulse.
“You had us very worried, young lady,” he says. His tone is firm but kind, the sort of voice that doesn’t invite argument. He checks my temperature, listens to my breathing, and nods in approval. “But I think we’re out of the woods now.”
Relief washes through me. My body still aches, but the fever’s gone, and the fog in my head has finally started to clear.
I glance toward the door.
Lorenzo stands just beyond the threshold, one shoulder pressed to the frame, arms crossed over his chest. The pose looks deceptively casual, like he’s simply waiting. But his eyes give him away—sharp, restless, tracking every word, every breath, every twitch of movement in the room.
If he had his way, he’d still be inside, hovering.
If I had my way, the door would be shut so I could have a shred of privacy.
It’s not that I don’t want him here. That’s the problem. I do. Too much. Because I can still feel what happened this morning just beneath my skin, lingering like warmth after sunlight.
When I’d first woken up my hair was a tangled mess against the pillow.
I remember lifting a hand to fix it only for his fingers to get there first. He brushed my hair back gently, slowly, like he was afraid I’d break.
His knuckles grazed my cheek, careful and warm.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a sound.
The touch felt wrong to enjoy. It was too intimate and too tender.
But I liked it. God help me, I liked it like that.
Like the kind of liking you’re not supposed to have for a man who terrifies half the city.
The kind that makes your stomach swoop and your chest flutter like you’re sixteen again and stupid.
And now, with him watching me from the doorway as if I might vanish if he blinks, it hits me like a punch. If he keeps looking at me like that—steady, unblinking, seeing straight through me—he’ll figure it out.
He’ll see the crush I’ve been desperately trying to smother. He’ll know that one gentle brush of his fingers across my hair this morning was enough to unravel me.
And I don’t think I can handle the rejection that I know would come from that realization.
“Is it okay if I get up and walk around?” I ask, focusing back on Dr. Lars.
“Yes, as long as you take it slow. No sudden movements and if you get dizzy sit down immediately.”