Chapter 18
eighteen
KITANIA
I curled deeper into the plush blankets of my nest, savoring the warmth of Giovanni’s body curved protectively around mine. His breathing was steady against my neck, and his arm lay draped across my waist, fingers absently tracing patterns on my skin.
These quiet moments had become my sanctuary as renovation chaos consumed the rest of the penthouse. Remodeling would be worth it in the long run, but the process was harder than I’d imagined. There were so many strange people in and out of our home, so many unfamiliar scents that set me on edge. I felt frazzled and uneasy all the time, and the stress of it all was getting to me. My nest had become my haven. My safe space. Here, wrapped in the comforting notes of Giovanni’s scent, I could finally relax.
“Comfortable, Dolcezza?” he rumbled, the vibration as soothing as the words themselves.
“Mmm,” I murmured, sinking deeper into his embrace. “Perfect.”
The only thing that would’ve made it more perfect would be if the others were here with us, too. Unfortunately, they were out, working to track down the traitor in our midst with another ruse. Another trap.
And it was just one more reason I needed my nest and all the comfort it provided.
I nuzzled my nose against Gio’s skin, searching for the spot where his scent was the strongest while his fingers trailed lazily up and down my spine. It was so incredibly relaxing, and I breathed him in, letting his signature ease away my anxiety.
But something in his touch changed. His fingers stilled against my skin, and I felt him shift slightly. His touch trailed along my shoulder blade, where I knew one of my deeper scars cut across the skin—courtesy of Rocco. The ridge of damaged tissue had faded from angry red to silvery pink over time, but it would never truly go away.
None of them would.
I tensed as his fingers traced another scar, then another—a roadmap to my shitty life. The mark my foster father left when I dropped a plate, a small round scar from where one of my foster brothers had put out his cigarette on my skin, the criss-crosses along my ribs from Vincent’s blade.
My Alpha’s breathing changed and grew heavier. When I chanced a glance at his face, his expression had darkened, brows drawn together, jaw tight. Hard like stone.
A hollow opened in my chest. Was he disgusted? He’d seen my scars before, told me they were beautiful. That they were an outward sign of how hard I’d fought, how strong I’d become, and how much I’d survived. I’d believed him—but maybe those words had just been comfort in the moment. Maybe he was just now realizing how many there were, especially since I always did my best to keep the worst of them hidden.
My stomach dipped, that familiar shame washing over me like a cold shower. I shifted, instinctively reaching for the sheet to cover myself.
“I can put something on if they bother you,” I whispered, unable to meet his eyes. All four of them had told me I shouldn’t be ashamed of my scars, but old insecurities rose fast, never far away. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he found them as unsightly as I did.
Giovanni’s hand caught mine—gentle, but unyielding. I glanced up, expecting disgust but finding something deeper, darker. His brows knit. Not in judgment, but in something that looked like pain.
“Dolcezza,” he said roughly, “don’t ever hide these from me.” The intensity of his gaze pinned me in place.
I stilled, the sheet crumpled in my fingers. “You looked... angry.”
He captured my hand again, pressing a kiss to my palm that sent warmth spiraling through me. “At myself,” he said, his voice gravelly. “For all the times you needed protection, and I wasn’t there to give it.”
My breath caught. He wasn’t just seeing my scars—he was carrying them like they were his own. Like each mark on my body was a personal failure on his part, though we hadn’t even known each other then.
I slid his hand to my chest, over my heart. It beat rapidly beneath his palm. “You’re here now.”
The words hung between us, simple but loaded with meaning. I watched emotions play across his face—guilt, determination, something deeper I was still learning to recognize.
He studied me, then slowly stripped off his shirt and rolled onto his back, taking my hand and placing it over the sinewy muscles of his stomach. “I’ve got a few of my own.”
He guided my hand, letting me feel what he normally hid beneath his intricate tattoos. I felt the ripple of his abs beneath my fingertips, then the raised ridge of scar tissue along his ribs.
“This one,” he said, pressing my fingers to the jagged line, “I got when I was sixteen. Knife fight with a rival who thought Tommas was an easy target because he spent too much time with his nose in books.” A slow smile crossed his face. “Tommy didn’t need my help, but I gave it anyway.”
My fingers traced the uneven edges. It must have been deep, messy. I imagined teenage Giovanni, already protective, already fierce.
He guided my hand higher, to a small nick just beneath his collarbone. “Bar fight when I was twenty-one. The guy was huge but had half my skill.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Unfortunately, he had a broken bottle and decent enough aim.”
There was one along his jaw he told me he got during his first amateur fight, a few scattered across his knuckles from years of brawling, one just above his eyebrow he got from a childhood bully. And of course the newest, the one on his shoulder from the bullet that could have ended him at the warehouse.
I traced each one, my touch reverent. Just like mine, his scars told the story of his survival, his strength. But it wasn’t the wounds he shared with me in this moment that hit hardest—it was the ones he bore in silence. The ones memorialized in ink on his chest, back, and arms.
The date of his mother’s death tattooed over his heart. The crown-wearing skull on his pectoral that told of the cold pressure of legacy that always weighed on his shoulders. A crumbling hourglass etched along his ribs—reminder of time lost during his darkest years, and the single black rose on his bicep that memorialized his first kill. His tattoos—the beautiful, intricate designs—covered his physical scars, but those deeper wounds were out in the open for all to see, though no one but those close to him understood their significance.
I flattened my palm over his chest, letting it rest there, over that date inked in black—over his heart. The silence between us wasn’t heavy. It was honest. Sacred, even. Like we were both lying our ghosts on the table, letting our damage breathe.
“I see them,” I said quietly. “The ones no one else notices. And I know they cost you.”
Giovanni’s throat worked around a swallow. His hand came up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing beneath my eye. “You don’t flinch,” he murmured. “Every time I think I’ve shown you the ugliest parts of me, you just look at me like I hung the damn moon.”
I leaned in until our noses brushed. “That’s because you’re wrong about what’s ugly.”
His breath stuttered against my lips. The hand on my jaw slid down to my neck, resting there like a question he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask. I answered by moving first—pressing my mouth to his with a softness that unraveled something in both of us.
His arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me over him, into him, until I was straddling his hips and he was kissing me like he’d die without it. One hand splayed over my back, anchoring me. The other slipped beneath the hem of my shirt, rough fingers skimming the sensitive skin just above the waistband of my sleep shorts.
I gasped against his lips, the sound swallowed by his mouth as he rolled, shifting me higher until I sat across his chest, thighs spread over him.
“Let me take care of you,” he rasped, voice gone thick. “Let me show you what you do to me, Kit.”
The hunger in his eyes made my breath catch.
I nodded.
Slowly, he stripped me bare, drinking in each newly uncovered swath of skin like a man dying of thirst. Then he guided me higher, fingers strong and sure as they gripped my thighs, dragging me up his body until I was positioned over his mouth. My heart raced, but there was no fear—just heat, thick and low in my belly.
Giovanni looked up at me, his hands holding me steady. “You’re not just tangled in my soul,” he said, voice raw. “You own it.”
Then he pulled me down, and his mouth met me with reverence and hunger all at once.
GIOVANNI
Kit had never looked so beautiful; thighs spread across my chest, hair a little wild, lips parted. Her breath came fast, but her eyes—fuck, those eyes—stayed locked on mine. There wasn’t a single trace of hesitation. Just trust.
And that damn near leveled me.
“Let me take care of you.” It was a question as much as it was a gentle command.
Kit nodded, and that little gesture undid something tight in my chest. My hands slid up her thighs, thumbs dragging over soft skin as I guided her higher, putting her right where I wanted her, positioning her over my face. Her scent hit me—sweet, earthy, intoxicating—and I swore I’d never get enough of it. Of her.
“You’re not just tangled in my soul,” I told her, every word carved from bone-deep truth. “You own it.”
Then I pulled her down.
And fuck me—if heaven had a taste, this was it. I groaned the second my tongue touched her, because she was already so wet, so warm, and that first sound she made? The hitched breath and shaky moan? I could’ve come from that alone.
My grip tightened on her thighs, holding her steady as I worked her open, slow at first—lazy licks meant to tease, to worship. I wasn’t in a hurry. I wanted to feel every twitch of her muscles, every tremble of her thighs. Wanted to draw it out until she forgot her own damn name.
She gasped above me, fingers tangling in my hair as I flattened my tongue and dragged it over her clit, then circled it, just once, slow and deliberate. Her hips bucked, and I growled against her, gripping her tighter.
“That’s it, baby,” I murmured, voice muffled by her skin. “Ride my mouth.”
She whimpered, breathless, and fuck if it wasn’t the sexiest sound I’d ever heard.
The taste of her had me groaning into her folds, deep and low. She was so damn sweet and slick, so hot against my tongue. Her thighs clenched against my jaw, another little gasp slipping out as she leaned back and braced her palms on my chest, giving me full access to her delicious cunt.
“Fuck, Gio,” she whimpered, and the need in her voice spurred me on.
I groaned into her sex, letting my tongue circle her clit again, teasing it until she keened. She tried to be quiet, always did—but I didn’t want quiet tonight. I wanted all of her. The soft sounds. The shaky ones. The filthy ones that said she was coming undone for me.
“Don’t hold back,” I rasped against her. “Wanna hear how good I make you feel.”
Kit moaned—low, helpless, perfect . Her hips rocked, hesitant at first, then bolder as I sucked that little nub between my lips and flicked the tip of my tongue against it. I didn’t let up. Just kept my rhythm steady and punishing, pushing her closer and closer to that peak, using every sound, every breath, every tremble as feedback.
She was so fuckin’ drenched for me. Slippery and hot and mine .
“Gio, I—” She cut herself off with a cry, one hand flying to her mouth, like she could muffle it.
“No,” I growled, pulling back just enough to look up at her. “You come loud for me. You hear me, Dolcezza?”
She nodded frantically, pupils blown, lips parted. My hands slid up her thighs, squeezing as I pulled her down harder against my mouth.
Then I devoured her.
Licked and sucked, tongue relentless against her clit while I fucked her with my mouth. Her body tensed, rocked, fought to hold on—but I didn’t give her that chance. I flattened my tongue, then curled it just right, and when she broke, she broke hard . Her whole body shook, a ragged sob ripping from her throat as she came for me.
I held her there, licking her through it, until her legs gave out and she collapsed, breathless and wrecked.
I flipped us easy, one smooth motion, laying her flat on the nest of blankets and pillows. Her eyes were glassy when she looked down at me, dazed in that way I loved.
I kissed the inside of her thigh, then the other. “That’s my good girl,” I murmured, lips brushing skin that still quivered beneath me. “You taste so fuckin’ good.”
She reached for me, guiding me back up her body, then pulled me down into a kiss. I let her taste herself on my tongue, and the way she moaned into my mouth made my cock so hard it ached.
“You okay?” I asked, brushing her hair back, checking in even as my blood roared for more.
“I’m perfect .” Her arms wrapped around my neck, and she tugged me back for another kiss while her legs parted for me in silent invitation.
I broke away long enough to look her in the eyes. “Is this okay?” I knew she’d been worried about sexual positions triggering her, but there wasn’t any hint of discomfort. The only thing I saw in her eyes was pure, unadulterated need .
She nodded instantly. “I want this. I want you .”
Goddamn. She had no idea what that did to me.
I slid my hand down her body, cupping the back of her thigh and lifting it over my hip, aligning us as I ground against her slowly, letting her feel every inch of what was coming. She gasped, arching into me.
“You feel that?” I said hoarsely. “That’s how fucking bad I want you.”
Her breath hitched. “Then take me.”
“Oh, Sweetness,” I growled, kissing her slow and deep, hips rolling lazily. “I plan to.”