Chapter 30 ANTONIO
Chapter thirty
ANTONIO
The bedroom door barely closes before I have her against it.
"Two hours," I growl against her throat, already working the buttons of her blouse. "You promised me two hours, Bell'cenda."
"Then stop wasting time talking." Her fingers find my belt, and the sound of leather sliding free makes my cock twitch. According to her we're in our trilogy era (whatever that means) and this woman still makes me feel like a fucking teenager.
I capture her mouth, swallowing whatever smart comment she was about to make. She tastes like the wine we didn't finish, like the future we're building, like mine. Always mine.
"I've been thinking about this all day," I admit between kisses, finally getting her blouse open. No bra. Fuck me. "Watching you teach those women, seeing you move..."
"Watching me?" She raises an eyebrow, but her breath catches when my thumb finds her nipple. "Stalker tendencies never really went away, did they?"
"Not when it comes to you." I lift her, and her legs wrap around my waist automatically, muscle memory from all the times we've done this. Her back arches against the door as I press into her, letting her feel exactly what she does to me. "Never when it comes to you."
"Antonio—"
"I know." I carry her to the bed, laying her down on sheets that still smell like last Tuesday. "I know what you need."
I reach for the nightstand drawer—the small jar that's become part of our ritual. The cream I had formulated for her, for the damage the chemo left behind. She used to be embarrassed about needing it. Now she just watches with half-lidded eyes as I warm it between my fingers.
"You take care of me," she murmurs.
"Always." I trace slow circles where she needs it most, feeling her body respond, relax, open. This is the part no one tells you about surviving—the way your body carries the scars even after you've won. But we've learned to work with it. To make it ours.
I take my time undressing her. She tries to rush me—impatient as always—but I pin her wrists above her head with one hand, using the other to trace the lines of her body.
The scars from her port. The place where her hip bone juts out, still too sharp from the stress of the past months.
The tattoo she got after beating cancer—a small dancer, mid-leap, right over her heart.
"Beautiful," I murmur against her skin. "Every fucking inch of you."
"Less poetry." She writhes beneath me. "More action."
I laugh—actually laugh, because only Isabella can make me feel light in the middle of something this intense. "Demanding."
"You love it."
"I love you." I release her wrists to strip off my own shirt, and her eyes go dark as they trace my scars. The burns. The bullet wounds. The map of violence written on my skin. She's never flinched from any of it. "Ti amo, Bell'cenda. More than I knew I was capable of."
Her hand finds my face, thumb tracing the ruined side. "Show me."
So I do.
I start at her throat, working my way down with lips and teeth and tongue. She gasps when I reach her breasts, moans when I move lower. By the time I settle between her thighs, she's already trembling.
"Please—"
"Not yet." I press a kiss to her inner thigh, so close to where she wants me but not quite there. "I told you. I'm taking my time tonight."
When I finally put my mouth on her, she arches off the bed with a cry that makes me grateful for thick walls and a sleeping child two floors up.
I work her slowly, learning her rhythms all over again, cataloging every sound she makes.
The breathy whimpers. The way she gasps my name—Antonio, not Beast, not husband, but Antonio—like I'm something precious.
Like I'm hers.
She comes apart on my tongue, fingers twisted in my hair, thighs clamped around my head. I don't stop until she's shaking, until she's begging, until she's come twice more and can barely form words.
"Now," she manages. "Antonio, now—"
I crawl up her body, positioning myself at her entrance. She's so wet I could slide home in one thrust, but I hold back, watching her face.
"Look at me."
Her eyes meet mine. Those eyes that saw through me from the very beginning, that called me Beast and meant it as both insult and endearment. The eyes of the woman who should have destroyed me but saved me instead.
"Ti amo," I say again, and push inside her.
We both groan. She's so tight, so hot, so fucking perfect that for a moment I can't move. Can't do anything but feel her wrapped around me, her nails digging into my shoulders, her breath mixing with mine.
Then she rolls her hips, and I'm lost.
We move together, finding that rhythm we've built over months of learning each other. Slow at first, savoring. Then faster as the need takes over. She matches me thrust for thrust, meeting my intensity with her own, demanding everything I have.
"Harder," she gasps. "I can take it."
So I give her harder. Give her everything.
Pin her wrists again because she likes the weight of me holding her down, likes knowing she's safe enough to surrender.
The bed creaks beneath us—we'll have to get a sturdier frame, I think distantly, and then all thought dissolves because she's clenching around me, crying out my name, and I'm right there with her.
"Bell'cenda—" I bury my face in her neck as I come, her name a prayer on my lips, her body the only church I've ever believed in.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin. Her head rests on my chest, right over the heart that beats only for her.
"That was..." She trails off, apparently unable to find the word.
"Worth being late for dinner?"
She laughs, that bright sound that I spent three months in hell learning to earn. "Definitely worth it."
I press a kiss to her hair, pulling her closer. Outside, the Tuscan stars are coming out. Somewhere in the fortress, our daughter sleeps peacefully. Somewhere in my chest, the Beast that used to rule me has finally, finally gone quiet.
"I don't deserve this," I say quietly. "Any of it. You, Elena, this life—"
"Stop." She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with those fierce eyes. "We don't do that anymore, remember? No more tallying sins. No more deciding who deserves what." Her hand finds my scarred cheek. "We're here. We chose this. That's what matters."
"When did you get so wise, ballerina?"
"Somewhere between the cancer and the kidnapping." She smiles. "Trauma builds character, apparently."
I pull her back down, tucking her against my side. "I love you."
"I know." She yawns, exhaustion finally catching up with the demands of the day. "I love you too. Even when you're an overbearing, possessive, revenge-obsessed—"
"Careful."
"—incredibly talented lover."
"Better." I reach for the blanket, pulling it over us both. "Sleep. We've got an early morning."
"The extraction in Bucharest."
"Ewa's daughter comes home tomorrow. Ewa's been counting the hours."
Isabella smiles against my chest. "Counting. Like Elena."
"Like Elena."
We lie in comfortable silence, her breathing slowly evening out. But I stay awake a while longer, watching the stars through the window, listening to the quiet sounds of a house at peace.
I used to be a monster who locked his wife in a moldy room, who let rage blind him to everything good. I thought I knew what power was—territory, weapons, fear.
I was wrong.
Power is this. Being the Beast. Loved by a woman who sees all of me. A daughter who teaches me something new every day. A purpose that's finally bigger than revenge.
Isabella shifts in her sleep, murmuring something that sounds like my name. I pull her closer, pressing my lips to her forehead.
"Ti amo, Bell'cenda," I whisper. "Forever."
She sighs contentedly.
Outside, Pavarotti yowls at something in the garden. Cerberus barks once in response. And somewhere in Elena's room, I'd bet money our daughter is counting in her dreams.
This is my life now. Messy, complicated, full of a cat who hates me and a kid who asks too many questions and a wife who sees straight through every wall I try to build.
It's us. And it's time to ask my ballerina one more question.