Chapter 15
ELENA
Vincenzo didn’t rush.
He climbed the ridge with slow, deliberate steps, boots crunching over the sharp stones as if the terrain owed him nothing.
The wind tugged at his coat, but he didn’t react.
Didn’t falter.
His focus was entirely on me.
On this.
On whatever he was about to decide.
He stopped in front of me.
Close enough that I could feel the faint heat of his presence, smell the subtle mix of rain and cedar clinging to his coat.
I lifted my head slightly, though the movement sent another sharp spike of pain through my knees.
My vision was hazy, tears still falling despite my efforts to stop them.
“I didn’t hit Violet,” I whispered.
My voice cracked—raw, fragile and desperate.
“I didn’t even touch her.”
Something quieter flickered across his face.
He said nothing in response.
Instead, he moved.
Metal scraped softly.
The cuffs around my wrists unlocked with a sharp click, and suddenly my arms were free—falling uselessly at my sides as circulation rushed back in a painful, tingling surge.
I winced, sucking in a sharp breath, fingers trembling as I tried to move them.
Then his attention shifted downward.
Another click.
The padlock at my ankles released.
The chain slackened, slipping free and clattering softly against the stone as he removed it completely.
For a second, I thought I was free.
I tried to stand.
My legs buckled immediately.
There was no strength left in them.
No support.
Just raw, screaming pain.
My knees gave out beneath me before I could even find balance, and I started to fall forward.
But I didn’t hit the ground.
Vincenzo caught me.
His arms came around me with a strength that was almost effortless, lifting me off the stone before I could fully collapse.
He gathered me against his chest and held me there—steady, secure—as if I weighed nothing at all.
A sharp breath left my lips, half from the sudden movement, half from the shock of being lifted.
Rain began to fall in earnest.
Heavy, freezing drops crashed against my skin, soaking through my clothes in seconds.
The storm came fast, relentless, drumming against the ridge and blurring the world into streaks of grey and black.
Vincenzo adjusted his hold on me.
Pulling me closer.
Tucking my head beneath his chin as he shielded me with his coat, his body acting as a barrier against the rain.
Water streamed down his hair, along his jaw, dripping steadily as he turned and began to walk.
Down the ridge.
Away from the scene.
His pace was steady, unhurried, as if nothing in the world could rush him.
Inside the villa, he didn’t stop.
Marble floors echoed beneath his steps as he carried me through the corridors.
The contrast between the storm outside and the cold, polished interior was jarring.
My wet clothes left faint marks against his coat as water dripped from us, leaving a trail behind.
Then—
Up the main staircase.
Through a set of doors.
Into his bedroom.
I barely had time to register the space before he moved again.
Into the bathroom.
And everything changed.
The bathroom was unlike anything I’d ever seen.
Black marble stretched across the floors and walls, polished to a reflective sheen.
The air was warm—heated floors sending gentle waves of heat up through my soaked clothes.
A massive rainfall shower stood in the corner, large enough to fit several people inside, its glass walls gleaming under soft lighting.
Everything smelled like him.
He set me on my feet—careful, almost gentle, like I might shatter under his touch.
The moment my soles met the heated marble, my knees betrayed me again.
They buckled.
A sharp gasp tore from my throat as my body folded, but before I could hit the ground, his hands were there—firm, gripping my waist and pulling me back upright with controlled strength.
He didn’t let go.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice lower now, less detached. “Don’t try to carry your weight yet.”
I clung to him without meaning to—fingers curling weakly against the front of his coat as my legs trembled violently beneath me.
Every nerve in my knees screamed, the raw, torn skin protesting even the slightest movement.
For a moment, he just looked at me.
Not the way he usually did.
This was... different.
His gaze dropped, scanning me slowly—my face, my shaking hands, the blood still dried and smeared along my skin from the ridge.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Then his hand moved.
Slow.
He traced the side of my thigh with his thumb, brushing against a streak of blood caught in the torn fabric of my leggings.
The contact was light—but it sent a jolt through me, both from pain and something else I couldn’t name.
“Your skin is so soft,” he murmured, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
His thumb lingered there for a second longer than necessary.
“Ten minutes on that ridge,” he added quietly, eyes still fixed on the mark he was touching, “and you’re already bleeding this much...”
There was something in his tone.
Not just observation.
Something... restrained.
Like he was measuring something he didn’t fully understand.
Then, just as suddenly as it came, it was gone.
He straightened slightly, his hand withdrawing from my skin.
The absence of his touch left a strange, cold emptiness behind.
“Take a bath,” he said, his voice returning to that same calm, composed tone from before. “I’ll wait in the bedroom.”
I stared at him.
Dazed. Aching.
Trying to process what was happening—what he was doing, what he wasn’t doing.
He didn’t look at me again.
He simply turned.
And walked out.
But he didn’t close the door.
It remained open behind him, a thin sliver of the hallway visible beyond, like an unspoken reminder that I wasn’t completely alone—but also not entirely safe.
The sound of his footsteps faded.
Then silence.
Steam was already rising in the bathroom, curling softly into the air, wrapping the room in warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold that still clung to my skin.
I hesitated.
For a moment, I just stood there—uncertain, exhausted, trying to steady my breathing.
Then slowly, carefully, I began to move.
I peeled the soaked hoodie off first, wincing as the damp fabric tugged against my injured knees when I bent slightly to pull it over my head.
The movement sent a sharp pulse of pain through my body, and I had to pause, biting back a sound.
Next came the leggings.
They clung stubbornly to my skin, sticking to dried blood and tender flesh.
I had to peel them off inch by inch, every movement sending tiny shocks of pain through my legs.
I gritted my teeth, breathing unevenly as I finally freed them and dropped them to the floor.
Last came my underwear.
My hands trembled as I removed it, my fingers carefu, as though even the slightest movement might break something else inside me.
Naked.
Exposed.
Cold air brushed against my skin, and I shivered instantly, my body instinctively curling inward as I stood there for a moment, vulnerable and raw.
Then, with a deep, shaky breath, I stepped forward.
Into the shower.
The moment the hot water hit my skin, I flinched.
It stung—sharp and immediate—especially where my knees were torn and sensitive.
My breath caught, my shoulders tensing as the water lashed against me, each drop like a reminder of what I’d just endured.
But slowly...
It eased.
The initial sting softened into something warmer, something almost soothing.
The heat seeped into my muscles, easing some of the tension that had been locked inside me for so long.
I let out a shaky breath.
Then another.
My hands braced lightly against the wall as I tilted my head forward, letting the water cascade down my hair, over my face, washing away the dirt, the blood, the fear that clung to me.
For a moment, I just stood there.
Eyes closed.
Breathing uneven but steadying.
Letting the water pound against my shoulders, my back, my skin.
Trying not to think.
But thoughts came anyway.
Unwanted. Relentless.
I wondered—through the pain still lingering in my body, through the exhaustion pulling at my limbs—whether the man waiting in the bedroom was still the same one who had put me on that ridge in the first place.
Whether this—whatever this was—was just another step in something I couldn’t see.
Or—
Whether something had shifted.
Something small.
Something even he couldn’t control.
The water kept falling.
Warm. Endless. Unforgiving in its own quiet way.
And I stood beneath it.
Trembling.
Seconds slipped by as I let the water pound over me, my thoughts drifting... until his voice cut through.
“Are you done, Elena?”
Still naked, I frantically searched for a towel, but he was already stepping closer.
My right hand immediately covered the middle of my thigh, the other shielding my chest.
He was my husband, but I felt a flush of shame at standing exposed before him.
He bent slightly, reaching for me.
One arm slid beneath my shoulders, the other beneath my thighs, and in one smooth motion, he lifted me—effortlessly, as if I weighed nothing at all.
A startled breath escaped me as my body left the ground.
The sudden shift jolted every nerve, but what hit harder was the warmth of him—his body pressed against mine, cutting through the cold in a way that almost hurt.
I flinched—not away, but into him instinctively, because there was nowhere else to go.
My fingers twitched weakly, barely able to hold on as he adjusted his grip, securing me against his chest.
His hold was firm. But careful.
I rested my head against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, exhaustion and pain blurring everything together.
Without hesitation, he carried me through, lowering me onto the edge of the massive bed with a gentleness that seemed to contradict everything else about him.
The mattress dipped beneath my weight, and for a moment, I just sat there—naked, shivering, trying to process that I was no longer on that ridge, no longer chained.
He stepped back, crossed the room, and opened the wardrobe.
Every movement was efficient.