56 | It's more dangerous than any kiss
The room is swallowed in darkness, the kind that feels alive, pressing against my skin like a lover's breath.
The only sound is the faint creak of the mansion settling and the slow, uneven rhythm of Luciano's breathing beside me.
I'm curled on my side of the massive bed, the sheets cool against my bare arms, my body tucked into soft pajama pants and a loose shirt that smells faintly of lavender.
It's a fragile attempt at normalcy, this pretense of sleep, but it's all I have tonight.
My eyes are closed, but I'm not asleep. I can't be, not when I feel him so acutely.
Luciano lies on his side of the bed, a distance away, like he's afraid too much closeness will shatter something neither of us can name.
His presence is a weight, heavy and inescapable, pulling at me even in the quiet.
Since the night he almost bled out in my arms, he's changed.
Not in the way he moves through the world, all sharp edges and coiled violence, but in the way he holds onto me.
Every night now, his hand seeks out my wrist, his fingers wrapping around it like a tether.
Even in sleep, he doesn't let me go.
It's not gentle, not sweet, it's possessive, desperate, like he's anchoring himself to my pulse to prove I'm still here.
Still his.
I feel it now, the heat of his grip, the calluses on his palm rough against my skin.
His fingers are loose but unyielding, a silent claim that makes my heart stutter in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
I keep my breathing even, pretending to sleep until I hear it, a hitch in his breath, a soft rustle as he stirs.
My body tenses, instinctively bracing for whatever comes next.
I don't open my eyes, don't move, but I'm hyper-aware of him shifting closer, the mattress dipping under his weight.
His grip on my wrist tightens, just enough to send a jolt through me, and I know he's awake.
I can feel his stare, heavy and searching, like he's memorizing me in the dark.
My pulse quickens, betraying me, and I curse myself for it.
His thumb presses against the inside of my wrist, deliberate and slow, tracing the delicate veins beneath my skin.
I hear him exhale, a low, ragged sound, and then he starts counting.
"One... two... three..."
His voice is barely a whisper, rough and frayed, but each number feels like a confession, like he's pulling my heartbeat into himself, claiming it as his own.
He does this sometimes, when he thinks I'm too deep in sleep to notice him.
I should hate this, hate the way he holds me like a lifeline, hate the way his touch burns with something too dark to be love.
But I don't.
God help me, I don't.
There's a part of me, buried deep, that craves it, craves the way he's carved himself into my life, my skin, my soul.
It's wrong, twisted, but it's there, pulsing in time with the heartbeat he's counting.
I risk a glance, cracking my eyes open just enough to see him through the haze of my lashes.
The moonlight spills through the curtains, painting his face in stark contrasts, sharp cheekbones, dark stubble, the tiny faint scar cutting through his brow.
His eyes are open, fixed on my wrist, and there's something in them that makes my breath catch.
His chest rises and falls unevenly, the bandages from his shoulder wound barely visible under the loose shirt he wears.
He's still healing, still fragile in a way he'd never admit, but there's nothing weak about the way he holds me now.
"Luciano..." I whisper, my voice slipping out before I can stop it.
I regret it instantly, his name feels too intimate, too vulnerable in the dark.
His gaze snaps to mine, and his grip tightens as he leans closer to me, his breath warm against my cheek.
"You're supposed to be asleep," he murmurs, his voice low, dangerous, like he's daring me to push him further.
"I couldn't," I admit, my throat tight. "Not with you... doing that."
His lips twitch, not quite a smile but something close, something that makes my stomach twist.
"Doing what?" he asks, but he knows. He always knows.
His thumb presses harder against my pulse, and I swear he feels it jump.
"Counting," I say, barely above a whisper. "You think I don't notice?"
He doesn't answer right away.
His eyes search mine, peeling me apart layer by layer, and I feel exposed, raw, like he's seeing every secret I've tried to bury.
"I need to know you're here," he says finally, his voice rough, almost broken. "That you haven't left me."
The word lands like a blow, heavy and possessive, and it should scare me.
It does, in a way, but not enough to make me pull away.
"I'm here," I say, and it feels like a surrender.
His jaw clenches, and for a second, I think he's going to kiss me.
But he doesn't.
He just stares, his grip on my wrist unrelenting, and I realize that this is worse.
This quiet intensity, this unspoken claim, it's more dangerous than any kiss.
It's a promise, a threat, a vow that binds us tighter than words ever could.
"You don't get it," he says, his voice dropping lower. "If you stopped breathing, I..."
He cuts himself off, leaving the words hanging in the air like a threat, and I feel the weight of his unspoken promise press against my chest, suffocating.
My body tenses, every nerve screaming for him to finish it.
"What would you do?" I ask, my voice trembling, though I try to mask it with a false sense of control.
"I won't ever let you slip away from me." His words are a promise, dark and unwavering.
"Then don't," I whisper, reckless, fucking stupid.
I lift my free hand, hesitating only a moment before resting it against his chest, over the steady thud of his heart.
It's warm, alive, and it grounds me.
His eyes darken, and he shifts closer, erasing the distance. His hand slides from my wrist to my arm, then higher, his fingers curling around the back of my neck.
"Careful,Principessa," he murmurs. "You don't know what you're asking for."
But I do.
That's the worst part, I know exactly what this is, what he is, and I'm still here, still reaching for him.
"I'm not afraid," I lie, because I am, but not enough to stop.
He doesn't move, doesn't breathe, and for a moment, I think I've pushed too far.
"Sleep," he finally says, his voice rough but softer now, almost tender in a way that feels wrong for him. "I'm not going anywhere either."
I nod, my heart pounding too loud in my ears.
He releases me, but only enough to let me settle back against the pillow.
His hand finds my wrist again, his fingers curling around it like a shackle, and I don't pull away.