Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ayanna
The house has gone quiet. Not peaceful quiet. The other kind, the suffocating kind, like the walls are holding their breath, afraid one wrong exhale might shatter something.
I try to sleep but fail spectacularly. Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands folded tightly in my lap, my body too tense to relax despite the ache creeping up my shoulders.
The room feels too big. Too dark. Too much empty space for my thoughts to rattle around in.
And they won’t stop. That’s the problem.
They just keep circling—Luca’s face, the sound of the shot, and the way Aric’s body moved in front of mine without hesitation.
Luca was my first love.
Aric was shot because of me.
The memory makes my stomach twist.
I lean forward, resting my forehead against my clasped hands. I shouldn’t worry about Luca. I shouldn’t worry about Aric. But I do. And there is no rule strong enough to stop it.
A door clicks open somewhere down the corridor, and my head lifts before I can stop it.
I don’t think. If I think, I’ll talk myself out of it. So I’m on my feet before I’ve consciously decided to move.
The hallway is dim this time of night. I stop outside his door. My hand hovers for half a second before I finally knock.
“Come in.” His voice reaches me through the wood, grounding me before I even see him.
I open the door, and the sight stops me where I stand.
Aric is near the window, back half turned, and he hasn’t bothered with a shirt.
My brain stutters for a moment before I register the rest; the ink. There’s a whole story written across his skin. One I’ve never seen.
A full sleeve covers his left arm. Black and gray, skulls and faces tangled together, Gothic and unapologetic, bleeding into a woman’s face beside it.
Her features are half hidden behind an ornate mask, beautiful in a haunting, almost ghostly way.
It spills over his shoulder and across his chest—a skull at the center, wings spreading wide across his collarbones, and script inked above it, words I can’t read from here.
My gaze rises to the runic tattoo just below his ear, a thin line of small symbols running down his neck. The only visible ink when he’s fully dressed. Clean and minimal, and nothing like the rest. Control over chaos. Even his skin tells you exactly who he is, if you’re paying attention.
Then I meet his eyes. His stoic eyes, watching, waiting. It’s unbearable how still he can be. How composed. Like nothing that happened today left a mark. At least not one he’s willing to show.
“Is Luca…” My voice comes out quieter than I want. I swallow and try again. “Is he—”
“Still alive.” The words land flat and controlled, as always.
Relief loosens something in my chest—just a fraction—until he adds, without a shred of inflection, “He still has to answer for what he did.”
My fingers curl into the fabric of my robe. “You’re going to kill him.” I barely get the words out. My whole body feels cold.
“It’s one of the options.”
Relief evaporates as quickly as it came. Because it’s like he turns murder into a strategic option on a list. And it’s chilling how matter-of-fact he is.
“He talked,” Aric continues. “Admitted he wasn’t acting alone.”
My brows knit together. “He had help?”
“Yes.”
“From who?”
“Domenico Conti.” The name means nothing to me—until he adds, “Chiara’s brother.”
For a heartbeat, I can only stare. “Chiara. As in… your ex.”
He inclines his head. A thousand questions crash into each other at once.
“Domenico works under Nikos Romano,” Aric clarifies. “He’s also Serena’s cousin. I’ve already notified Nikos. There will be a formal meeting tomorrow.”
My shoulders stiffen. “Tomorrow?”
“You’ll come with me. As Mrs. Vold.”
There it is again. That name.
Something pinches in my chest every time he says it. Like he’s using it to hold something else at bay. Or maybe to remind us both what this is.
“I figured.” I lift my chin.
He studies me for a moment, long enough that I have to resist the urge to fidget.
“I heard what you said to him,” he finally says. “The cameras,” he adds, like that explains everything.
“Of course.” A scoff escapes me before I can stop it.
“I know this marriage wasn’t something you chose, but I’m glad you understand what it requires.”
My chin dips in a small nod. “I keep my vows. Always.”
His eyes flick between mine until, involuntarily, my gaze drifts to the neat line of stitches threading through inked skin beneath his collarbone. I hadn’t noticed them—or hadn’t let myself notice them—before. The sight of it sends a strange, unwelcome ache through my chest.
“You were shot.” I stare at the stitched wound. “Because of me.”
“I was shot because someone made a mistake they’ll regret.” His voice doesn’t waver. “That’s all.”
I step closer before I can second-guess myself. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For...” I trail off, searching for the right words while his eyes hold mine. “Saving my life.”
He exhales through his nose. Either unimpressed or pretending to be. “You’re Mrs. Vold. Keeping you safe is my responsibility.”
Duty. Always duty.
Yet something in me refuses to believe that’s all it was. You don’t move that fast out of obligation. You don’t throw your body in front of a bullet because of a contract.
I reach out, fingers hovering near the wound. “Let me—”
“It’s been taken care of.”
“I know.” I glance up at him. “I still want to.”
His eyes narrow, and his head angles slightly. “You’re stubborn.”
“I’m glad you’ve finally come to terms with that.”
The corner of his mouth twitches despite his attempt to fight it.
When my fingers brush his skin, his muscles tense. A ripple of something moves through him. Through me. Like we’ve both touched a live wire, and neither of us is pulling away.
“Who stitched it?” I ask, because I need to say something. Because the silence between us, that strange invisible wire connecting us, makes being so close to him intimidating.
“Our private surgeon.”
My thumb traces the skin near the stitches. “You could’ve died.”
“I didn’t.” His hand closes around my wrist, firm but not rough. “I said I’m fine.”
His proximity sends a shiver straight down my spine.
The sharp angles of his face, the controlled violence of his stillness, the way the light turns him into something carved rather than born.
Because up close, he is devastating. Divinely so.
His face remains composed, unreadable, a barren landscape that gives nothing away.
Yet his eyes tell a different story. They burn.
Not openly, though. Contained. Like something that would destroy everything if it slipped its leash.
“I should go,” I whisper, suddenly aware of how thin the space between us has become.
I turn, but his hand squeezes harder. In one smooth motion, he spins me back, his other hand settling at the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. My breath stutters as my head tilts back, forced to meet his gaze.
“You can’t see him again,” he growls. “Not anymore.” His thumb presses lightly into my spine. “Not when you’re… mine.”
Mine.
He never calls me his wife or says my name like it belongs to him. Yet here he is, claiming me in the same breath he keeps me at a distance.
A possessive, infuriating contradiction.
“Am I yours, though?” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. “Or is this all just a game? A facade we’re expected to maintain?”
He doesn’t answer. His eyes stay on mine, as though trying to make sense of something that refuses to.
I step back gently, slipping from his hold before it can tighten once again.
“Good night, Aric,” I whisper, and leave with my heart racing, skin still humming.
I don’t sleep that night. Every time I close my eyes, I see blood.
Hear the echo of a gunshot and feel the way Aric shields me.
The weight of what almost happened presses against my ribs until breathing feels optional.
I lie still in the dark, staring at a ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the wind outside, once again, realizing Norway is nothing like Monsera.
There are no cicadas, no fountains echoing through the palace courtyards or rustling olive trees, no air that still feels warm against your skin, even at night. Here, the silence feels chilling.
I press my palm flat against my chest, counting my breaths like a child again. In. Hold. Out. It doesn’t calm me. Nothing does… not anymore.
Eventually, the alarm goes off, announcing a morning I could never have recognized without the clock because the darkness beyond my windows looks no different than it did hours ago. I slip out of bed, hoping I can outrun the thoughts that kept me awake.
I slip into a tailored black pantsuit and pull my hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck.
Aric is already waiting when I enter the hall, dressed in a black blazer that sits impeccably on his broad shoulders.
He looks exactly as he always does, composed and lethal.
This man exudes authority without saying a word.
His gaze flicks to me, and he inclines his head, signaling for me to go ahead.
He falls into step behind me. We head outside to the waiting car, which takes us to the Volds’ private airfield.
Before long, we’re aboard Aric’s private jet, and I settle into the cream leather seat opposite him.
The entire flight passes in silence. I watch the clouds drift beyond the window and pretend I’m not aware of every breath my husband takes, every subtle shift in his seat. The cabin feels too small despite its size, too quiet, and I’m grateful when we finally begin our descent.