Chapter 8
8
NICOLAS
I can’t sleep. Not with Aria lying so close, yet so far away.
First of all, I’m still semi-hard. My body hasn’t fully recovered from that… moment between us earlier. Even the cold shower did nothing to erase the memory of her scent, her taste, or the sound of her moans.
Secondly, I can’t risk letting Aria find out about my night terrors and amnesia that follow them. If she knows, Marco will know, too. And if Marco knows, he’ll twist that knowledge into a weapon against me. I’ve learned the hard way never to hand him ammunition.
But as much as I’m trying to stay guarded, I know Aria must be wrestling with her own thoughts. She won’t fall asleep easily, not with her enemy lying beside her, awake and all too aware.
Even though Marco told her that I wasn’t responsible for the car explosion, I doubt she truly believes it. Right now, to Aria, I'm still the enemy—the man who tore her life apart. The man she’s forced to share a bed with.
Sleep won’t come easy for either of us.
But she needs it. Tomorrow, she starts her new life as Nicolas Paolo's wife. She’ll need all her strength for what’s to come.
To ease her mind, I fake it.
I lie on my back, close my eyes, and slow my breathing, making each inhale and exhale steady and deliberate. The room is silent except for the soft rustle of sheets as Aria shifts on her side of the bed. She doesn’t turn to face me—not yet.
Behind my closed eyes, I see Ken. The memory gnaws at me, but I push it aside, forcing myself to stay still. I need to give her time to believe I’m asleep. If that’s what it takes for her to relax enough to rest, I’ll endure it.
Finally, she turns.
“How could he sleep so peacefully after…” her voice trails off, followed by a muttered, “Asshole.
I almost smile at the insult but hold my expression perfectly still. She shifts again, the faint creak of the mattress betraying her movements. I can’t tell if she’s facing away from me now or just readjusting.
Her movements come a few more times, restless and uncertain, until they slow. Complete stillness settles over the room, broken only by the sound of her breathing—deep, steady, hesitant at first but gradually evening out.
Then I hear it: a soft, delicate hum, almost like a sigh. She’s finally given in to exhaustion.
Carefully, I turn onto my side, keeping my movements slow and deliberate. My eyes find her in the faint, silvery light spilling through the curtains.
She looks different like this—peaceful, almost unrecognizable from the fiery, defiant woman who spits venom with every word—and sometimes literally, too.
The anger she wears like armor when she’s awake has melted away, revealing a face that looks almost… angelic.
I thought she looked like an angel earlier, too. She was poised and striking when she stepped into the church, even amidst the chaos.
Her long, dark lashes rest softly against her cheeks, and her lips are slightly parted as she breathes, her soft snores breaking the silence.
I don’t know how she does it.
Keep up with a man like Marco. Agree to marry someone like me. It takes courage—or maybe it’s desperation. Either way, it’s not something most people would do.
Marco doesn’t deserve her. He’s too blind to see how lucky he is to have a sister like her—someone willing to step into this mess for him without fully understanding the weight of shat she’s sacrificing.
“Brave and stupid,” I mutter to myself. “Naive and reckless.”
Without thinking, I reach out, brushing a hand over her cheek. Her skin is as smooth as these sheets and warm under my touch. She didn’t even take off her wedding dress, which makes me feel a pang of disappointment.
I wish I could see some more of her beautiful skin.
For a moment, I let myself linger, watching her. Then reality crashes down.
This is exactly what Marco wants, isn’t it? For me to fall for her, to let her get under my skin. He’d probably be thrilled to know I’m thinking about her like this.
I pull my hand back, shaking my head to clear my thoughts. I pick up my phone from the bedside table, and the time reads 4:30 a.m.
I didn’t realize I was ‘pretending’ to sleep for so long.
Carefully, I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The ache in my shoulder reminds me of the stitches, but it’s a dull pain compared to the ache in my chest—the kind that has nothing to do with physical wounds.
I grab a pair of sweatpants and a vest from the chair and slip them on.
This room was suffocating enough with my nightmares. Now that I have to share it with someone, I need to move, to clear my head.
I head downstairs and out the front door. The guard on duty straightens up when he sees me. At first, there’s a flicker of surprise in his expression, but he quickly regains his composure.
“Boss,” he says, adjusting the gun in his holster, “going… for a run?”
“Yes.”
“Should I come with you?”
He’s young, barely out of his teens, with a lean build and wide, eager eyes. He doesn’t belong here. Not yet.
“No,” I reply flatly.
He looks like he’s about to argue but thinks better of it.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“James, sir.”
I grunt a reply and walk past him. I make a mental note to reassign him. Someone that young and fresh doesn’t belong on house duty where I have to see his face. Not when that face reminds me so much of Ken.
I grab my gun from the entryway table before stepping into the darkness. The road ahead is empty, the silence broken only by the rhythmic sound of my footsteps.
I run until the burn in my legs drowns out the thoughts in my head. The docks, the ambush, the bodies—it all fades into the background. Out here, with no one watching, I can let myself breathe.
When I finally return, the sun is high in the sky, but the mansion is still eerily quiet. The staff moves through the halls like ghosts, careful not to disturb anything.
I head back to the bedroom, my shirt damp with sweat. Aria's frame is still squeezed at the very edge of the bed, and the blanket is wrapped tightly around her body.
I don’t have time to determine if she’s still sleeping or faking it because I notice a warmth spreading across my stomach. I see a dark stain blooming on my vest—blood.
Damn it.
The stitches must have ripped from carrying Aria up the stairs yesterday or over-stretching myself during this run.
I try to pull the vest off, but a sharp, blinding pain shoots through my side, restricting how much I can move. I barely hold back from cursing out loud.
My hand trembles as I attempt again, but the wound pulls at even the slightest movement.
I groan, and the frustration I feel at myself only intensifies. It’s not my first gunshot wound, and it probably won’t be my last.
Why was it so damn hard to take off a goddamn shirt?
“Need help?”
The voice startles me, and I look up to see Aria sitting in bed. Her face is blank, and her eyes are fixed on me.
“Have you been watching me this whole time?” I ask, my voice sharp.
“Maybe.”
“Enjoying the show?”
She shrugs, her lips curving into a smirk. “Yes, Nicolas. I was really enjoying seeing you in excruciating pain. But your groans are disturbing my sleep.”
I glare at her, but she throws the blanket aside and stands, walking toward me. Her hair is messy, her dress rumpled. There’s a faint black stain beneath her eyes, and her lipstick is smudged along the edge of her lips. Yet, somehow, she still looks beautiful.
Before I can tell her to sit back down, she reaches for the hem of my shirt.
“What are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer, just lifts the fabric carefully. Her hands are gentle, her touch light, but every movement sends a dull ache through my side. I stand still, letting her work, but my jaw tightens.
Why is she doing this?
Her face is close to my shoulder, and I can feel her breath against my skin. Her focus is entirely on the wound, her brows furrowed in concentration.
I watch her, trying to figure her out. She’s been nothing but fire and defiance since the moment we met. Why the sudden kindness? What’s her angle?
She carefully peels the shirt away from the dried blood. I hear her slight intake of breath when she sees the injury. Her fingers brush against my skin, and I can’t stop how my body tenses.
“Why are you helping me?” I finally ask, my voice low.
She doesn’t look up. She takes a deep breath, and the surprise fades from her face. She’s handling her emotions surprisingly well today. “I don’t want to become the widow whose husband bled to death the morning after their wedding.”
I can’t tell if that was a joke or not. Her voice sounds as blank as the expression she’s wearing.
I don’t say anything else. I let her finish her work.
Finally, she pulls the shirt halfway up, and I lift my hand slightly. With great effort, she carefully slides it over my head, leaving me bare-chested.
“And we’re…”
Aria gasps when she sees my chest, her hand flying to her mouth. Her wide eyes aren’t just on the torn stitches or the blood trickling down. They roam over me, tracing every scar, every tattoo.
I stand still, my chest rising and falling, watching her gaze travel across my skin. It feels like she’s touching me with her eyes, making me feel strange. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and before I can say anything, she reaches out and touches me.
I don’t think she even realizes what she’s doing because of how dazed she looks.
Her fingers skim over the ink on my chest, the sharp black lines of the wolf tattoo that stretches over my left pec. Then lower, to the jagged scar running along my ribs. It’s faint, faded with time, but her fingers linger there, tracing the raised edges.
The feeling of her hand on me is almost unbearable. But I don’t want to stop her yet. I don’t want to break this trance-like state she seems to have gone into. Her hand is small and soft, nothing like what I’m used to.
Her other hand brushes against my stomach, right next to the wound, and then she traces the lines of my packs. Her fingers go lower and lower till they brush against the top of my pants. My stomach contracts and my cock twitches.
Then she sees the bulge in my pants, and I see the exact moment she realizes what she’s doing.
She snatches her hands back and jumps away.
It doesn’t matter. The damage has already been done.
I reach for her and pull her back. I grab the nape of her neck with one hand and lean down. My lips meet hers, waiting or daring her to pull away.
But she doesn’t.
With the other hand, I take hers and place it against the bulge in my pants. Her breath catches, and she tries to pull her hand back. I hold it firmly in place and press it harder against me. The softest sound escapes her lips—a moan that makes my blood rush.
I almost lose control, but I must stay strong because I’m about to make a point.
“As my wife, you must first learn that all actions have consequences.” I run my fingers through her hair, gripping tightly and pulling. She yelps in pain, but her eyes are dark with something I can’t quite read.
“And I’ll show you a glimpse of those consequences right now, Bambina, ” I say before I kiss her.
Keeping her hand on my cock, I run my tongue between her lips and ravage her mouth with the force of my kiss. Her lips part, and I take the invitation, deepening the kiss. Her lips taste sweet this morning, too. The way they form a perfect seal with mine makes it difficult to break from them.
Then, before I lose myself entirely and miss the point I’m trying to make, I pull back.
She looks angry but undeniably turned on. “The next time you try to tease me, it’ll be my cock, not my tongue, sliding into those pretty lips of yours.”
She turns tomato red. “I wasn’t trying to-”
“I’ll be away all day,” I say, already walking towards the bathroom with my blood-stained shirt in my hand. “I have an important meeting to attend.”
My body is still buzzing, and I need an ice bath to cool the monster raging in my pants.
Her expression shifts, and she blinks as if she suddenly remembered something. “Maybe I should come with you,” she says. Her tone is light, almost sweet. “It could be… helpful.”
The words bring my reality crashing down, and I feel my cock almost completely deflate. I take a step back, narrowing my eyes. Of course. Of course, she wants to come. Marco’s little spy, trying to worm her way into my business.
I smirk, though the expression feels hollow. “Since you seem so eager to spend time with me, there’s a diner where we’ll need to make our first appearance. It’ll be a good place to play your accessory role.”
The warmth in her eyes sharpens, and the sweet look vanishes. The fragile moment between us slips away like it never existed.
“Accessory?” she snaps, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.
“Exactly,” I say flatly. “That’s what you’re here for, remember?”
Her jaw clenches, but she doesn’t respond immediately. After a moment, she lifts her chin defiantly. “I need my things from my house. I didn’t come prepared.”
I shake my head slowly. “You’re my wife now. I’ll buy you whatever you need.”
“That’s not what I asked,” she says, her voice firm. “Maybe my brother can-”
“This isn’t a negotiation,” I cut in, adding finality to my tone. “You’re my responsibility now. Not Marco’s.”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I don’t wait for her to speak. I turn and walk toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind me with a decisive click.