Chapter 12 #2
I nod, trying to sound nonchalant. “Good. That means I can move back to my room.”
But the words stick in my throat. My room. The thought makes my chest tighten, a strange pressure blooming beneath my ribs. This isn’t my home. It was never meant to be. It isn’t mine—not the bed, not the windows, not the echoing hallways or the quiet hum of Lorenzo’s men outside every door.
And yet… somehow… it’s starting to feel like it is. And that is a dangerous thought and definitely a foolish one. One I can’t afford to entertain.
The truth hits me hard and sudden. I need to get back to Kansas City.
As soon as humanly possible. Back to my life.
Back to normalcy. Back to something that doesn’t involve gunmen, fever dreams, and a man whose touch makes my heartbeat riot against my ribs.
If I stay here any longer, in this house that feels too warm and too safe, with him watching me like I’m the only thing in the world that makes sense to him… I might not leave at all.
That’s why I ask the question I know will hurt Lorenzo.
“Am I okay to travel? Like on a plane?”
Dr. Lars’ thick brows pull together. “I don’t see why not, but are you planning to go somewhere?”
I hesitate, my gaze flicking toward Lorenzo. He doesn’t move, but the shift in his jaw tells me he’s listening.
“I was just asking,” I murmur. “I wanted to know if I could.”
Dr. Lars hums, unconvinced, then makes a note on his clipboard. “You’d be fine, but I’d recommend waiting a few days, just to be safe.”
“Okay.” I pause. “And showers? Am I okay to shower on my own?”
He gives me a small smile. “Yes, Ms. Miller. Just keep the wound covered and avoid very hot water for now.”
I exhale a little too loudly, relief mingling with embarrassment. “Good. I’d really like to not smell like antiseptic for once.”
That earns the faintest chuckle from him.
“I imagine so.” He starts packing up his instruments, then gives me a look that’s part doctor, part fatherly warning. “You’ve been through a great deal. Don’t push yourself too soon. Rest is still your best medicine.”
I nod again, but my attention drifts to the doorway. Lorenzo hasn’t moved, though his eyes soften just a fraction when they meet mine. And my dang heart flutters.
As Dr. Lars leaves, he claps Lorenzo gently on the shoulder. “She’s strong. She’ll be fine.”
“I know,” Lorenzo says quietly.
When the doctor is gone, the silence stretches between us again. He steps into the room, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
“You’re planning to leave,” he says. It’s not a question but a statement.
My heart skips. “I just asked about traveling.”
“People don’t ask about traveling unless they intend to go somewhere.”
I look away, fingers curling in the bedsheet. “I can’t stay here forever, Lorenzo.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then, softly but with steel beneath it he says, “Maybe not forever, cara. But you’re not leaving yet.”
He leaves after that, the soft click of the door echoing louder than it should.
For some reason, my eyes fill with tears. I blink hard, willing them away, but they come anyway—hot, stupid, and relentless. I don’t even know why. Because he’s acting distant again? Because one minute he’s soft, and the next he’s steel? Because I shouldn’t even be here in the first place?
He knows it.
I know it.
And yet, here I am. In his bed, wrapped in his silence, and drowning in feelings I don’t want to name.
I stare at the ceiling until the stillness starts to suffocate me. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
With trembling fingers, I push the heavy bedding back. The blanket smells faintly like him and that alone almost makes me stop. But I don’t.
I can’t.
The weight of the sheets drags at my limbs, and by the time I manage to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, my chest is heaving like I’ve run a mile. Every movement tugs at my side, each breath sending a dull, throbbing ache through my ribs.
“Come on,” I whisper to myself. “You can do this.”
The floor feels cool against my bare feet, grounding me.
I press my palm to the nightstand, using it to steady myself as I rise.
My knees wobble, my vision blurs for a heartbeat, and I have to pause to catch my breath.
The world tilts slightly, and I grip the edge of the table until it steadies.
Sweat beads at my temple. My heart pounds too fast, too loud.
But I’m standing, even if I feel like a newborn deer.
The effort leaves me trembling, but it also sparks something fierce and fragile inside me. I’ve been shot twice, nearly died, and yet I’m still here. Still moving.
I take one slow step toward the door. Then another. The sound of my breathing fills the quiet room, harsh and uneven.
I don’t know where I’m going. Maybe to my old room, maybe just away from this one. Away from his scent, his shadow, his presence that clings to every inch of this space.
But when my hand closes around the doorknob, I have to stop again, bending slightly, my vision swimming. The ache in my side pulses deep and angry.
Of course that’s when Lorenzo decides to walk back in.
“What in the hell are you doing?” His voice is low but sharp, the kind of tone that makes even the air hold still.
I barely have time to look up before he’s there, his hands gripping my arms to steady me. My legs buckle, and I sink against him, my forehead brushing his chest. His heartbeat is steady. Mine isn’t.
“Just going for a walk,” I manage, my voice weak and breathless.
He mutters something in Italian under his breath and in one swift motion, he scoops me into his arms. I make a sound of protest because I weigh too much, but that dies halfway out of my throat.
He carries me straight to the bed, moving with a kind of practiced ease that says he’s done this before. That he’s carried people who couldn’t stand on their own. Only this time, it’s not business. It’s me.
He sets me down carefully on the mattress, tucking the blanket around me before I can object.
“You could’ve taken me to the guest room,” I murmur as he smooths the edge of the blanket around me.
“I could,” he agrees easily, without hesitation. “But I didn’t. It’s easier to take care of you in here where I know where things are.”
His tone is practical, almost casual, but the words land with unexpected weight.
Something heavy settles in my chest, something sharp-edged that feels almost like shame… but not quite. More like the ache of wanting something I shouldn’t want. Of assuming meaning where maybe there isn’t any.
Is that why he’s kept me in his room all along? Because it’s convenient? Because it’s efficient? Because I’m easier to manage when I’m right where he wants me?
The thought shouldn’t sting.
It shouldn’t.
But it does because a small, traitorous part of me had hoped it was more than convenience. That keeping me close meant something to him. That it wasn’t just about practicality or control or proximity.
I swallow hard, forcing the feeling down before it shows on my face.
Because I have no right to want more from a man like him. And yet I do. Stupidly so.
“When do you think I can go back to the guest room?” I ask softly.
He pauses, studying me. “In a hurry to get away from me?”
The words are wrapped in a faint smile, but there’s no humor in his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s teasing or testing me. Maybe both.
“It’s just weird,” I say finally. “I shouldn’t be in here.”
“And why is that, cara?”
The word hits me like a spark. Cara. Sweetheart. He’s never called me that before. It used to be Miss Miller or Elizabeth, always formal, distant. But this feels different. It’s too personal which makes it dangerous.
I glance away, my throat tight.
“I’m tired,” I say, grasping for escape. “I think I’ll take a nap.”
He lets the moment stretch, studying me long enough that I can feel the weight of his gaze. Then, finally, he nods. “Rest.”
He pats my leg once, almost tender, then stands and leaves the room.
The door closes softly behind him, and silence folds around me again.
I stare at the ceiling, at the soft flicker of light spilling through the curtains. My chest aches with a grief that feels too big for my body. Sienna would know what to do. She’d know how to talk to him, how to make sense of the way he looks at me.
But she’s gone.
I press a trembling hand over my heart, where the ache never seems to fade.
“I miss you so much,” I whisper to the empty room.
No one answers, but I swear I can still hear her laughter echoing faintly in my head. Bright and fearless, the way she always was.
And it makes the silence feel even heavier.