Chapter 15
Elowen
I run my hand over Bruno’s back, my mind replaying last night on a loop. And every loop ends with the same question: Can I somehow convince him to forget about killing my uncle? And the same answer: I don’t think so. His hatred is too strong.
But I can’t give up without trying.
I groan in frustration and get up from bed. Bruno follows.
“You stay here. I have something important to discuss with your human.”
I press a quick kiss to his head, then leave, heading toward my captor’s room. He must be in there this early in the morning.
I didn’t get much sleep last night. I was too restless. No matter how many reasons I give myself, I can’t deny the pull I feel toward him. A need to move closer. To see the man beneath the monster. I want to touch him—every broken piece he’s made of.
I knock on his door. It opens on the third knock.
He’s standing there in the same burgundy T-shirt and black sweatpants from last night. His hair is disheveled.
“Good morning,” I greet softly.
He steps back. I follow. The door closes behind me.
My pulse quickens as I move closer to him. We’re in a bedroom. Alone. My brain is throwing bad thoughts at me about this. Thoughts like turning him around and kissing him.
My total lack of experience doesn’t stop me from thinking about it, despite knowing full well that acting boldly would make me a fool. Avi told me no matter how many books we read, when we kiss for the first time, all that theoretical knowledge evaporates into thin air.
But there’s one fact I can’t ignore: he hates my family. And probably me, too. That’s enough to keep me from acting on my desires.
He turns to face me.
“I want to talk to you.”
“I can tell.” His voice is rough.
He’s definitely not a fan of me coming into his room to advocate for my uncle—while also carrying desires to do indecent things with him. He doesn’t even know any of this. My mere presence is enough to ruin his morning.
I don’t know what to feel about that.
Heartbroken? My sanity answers.
Yeah, right. Thanks.
“If you don’t like what I say, you can ask me to leave. Please don’t kill me.”
He frowns but stays silent.
“I’m really sorry that my father killed yours, and that you and your mother had to suffer. But I don’t think killing my father will change anything. What will you get from this revenge?”
His face darkens with pure hatred and anger, directed at me. I clamp down on my fear, refusing to tremble after daring to put my hand in a lion’s mouth.
“What will I get?” He takes a step toward me. I stay rooted, even though every survival instinct screams at me to run.
His mouth twitches with rage. “I’ll get the fucking peace I haven’t felt for a single day since your father killed mine.”
“You won’t find peace. You never get it from killing.”
Even if he ends up killing me after this, I won’t back down without saying what I came here to say.
He scoffs. “Easy to say, Princess. It’s not your nine-year-old self hunting you. You think I want this revenge to satisfy my ego?”
I don’t answer. The fear drains from me, leaving a suffocation that thickens the longer I hold his gaze. There’s too much anguish in them, and it reverberates in my chest.
“I fucking need this revenge.” The anger in his eyes fades into desolation. “I fucking need it—to die, or to even think about living.”
He looks at me coldly, stepping back.
“But you can’t understand this. You can’t understand what it feels like to live with a misery that nothing can stop.” His voice is lifeless.
What has this man gone through that has crushed him this much?
I take a step closer to him, my heart breaking under the weight he bears alone. He takes another step back, then turns and walks into the bathroom, locking himself behind the door.
I don’t know exactly what he’s been through, but one thing is clear: he’s carried so many open wounds for so long that the pain has become part of his existence.
I stare at the closed door. I want to take this pain from him. But I can’t let him kill my uncle. And I know it won’t erase his suffering, he just thinks it will. It doesn’t work like that. He’ll only feel emptier afterward.
Shoulders slumped, I leave his room.
???
He wasn’t at breakfast, and he’s not here for lunch either. But Antonio is.
“Where is he?”
“Must be in his study,” he answers calmly.
I settle into my chair. “Isn’t he coming for lunch?”
Antonio thinks for a moment, then frowns and shakes his head.
My mood falls deeper.
“I think he’s in a bad mood.”
He nods slightly. “He is.”
Not feeling any appetite, I rise. Antonio regards me with a questioning look.
“I want to bring food to his study.”
He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t recommend that. When he’s like this, he prefers to be alone.”
“It’s fine. If he gets mad, I won’t push him.” I have nothing to lose.
I fill one plate with tartines and another with braciole. There are other dishes, but I’m not sure he’ll even want to eat, so I only take the ones I like best. Then I head for his study.
I balance the plates on one arm and knock.
“Come in.” His cold voice comes from within.
I open the door and step in awkwardly, careful to keep my balance. Once inside, I take the plates in both hands and look at him.
He’s already watching me.
“I brought you lunch,” I manage to say, keeping my voice steady despite my nerves.
“Who asked you to?”
I step closer.
“No one. It was me, myself, and I who made this executive decision on behalf of your stomach, which must be growling by now.”
I set the plates beside his keyboard and stand next to his chair, then gesture grandly toward the food.
“Please eat, master. If you’d like, I can arrange some background music as well.”
Not a hint of softening crosses his face at my attempt to lighten the mood.
I pick up the plate of tartines, take one, and extend it toward his mouth.
“It’s so good. The toasted Poilane has the perfect crunch. The butter will melt on your tongue the moment it touches.”
I make a dreamy face. “Salty, creamy, sweet.”
I lick my lips. This thirst trap is working better on me than on him—he looks completely unmoved. I gaze at the beauty in my hand.
“And look at the figs on top—sticky, honeyed. They’ll collapse when you bite them. And the ricotta—” I swallow the pool of saliva threatening to spill. “Just eat it,” I finish quickly, extending it further.
When he doesn’t pull back, I grow bolder and touch it to his lips. He hasn’t looked at it once, just keeps staring at me.
Thankfully, he opens his mouth.
I grin and place the piece inside. He bites down, chews slowly, then takes another bite. I watch him with a happy smile, my hand still extended.
When he finishes, I extend my hand further. He takes the last bite, his lips brushing my fingers. I pull away, but not before noting their softness.
Yes. They’ll feel incredible when I finally get to kiss them.
I lick my lips again. This time in desire to taste something else.
Get a fucking grip, you horny, lonely woman. My conscience snaps at me.
I blink myself out of the trance I’ve fallen into. I’m sure this man doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s doing to me. Does Stockholm syndrome work both ways, or is this messed-up thing only for captives and not for captors?
I take a deep breath, shove my useless thoughts aside, and give him an encouraging smile, then pat his head.
“Good boy.”
He chuckles. Wasn’t he just brooding? Well, I’m not complaining.
“I’m almost twice your age, Princess.”
My eyes widen. I jump back a little.
“What?!”
He looks mature—twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight—but not twice my age.
“How old are you?” I blurt out, my voice still shocked.
“Thirty-four.”
I blink slowly. “That’s not twice, but... you’re really old.”
He’s still fourteen freaking years older than me. Jesus Christ. I never knew I was into older men. Maybe that’s why I never liked anyone my own age.
I offer him the plate, but he doesn’t take it.
“Feed me,” he says, shocking me even more.
I give him a disbelieving look. “Don’t you think you’re a little old to be asking for things like that?”
He leans his head back, watching me with an expression I’ve never seen on him before. Relaxed. Amused. There’s even a hint of mischief in his half-lidded eyes.
“I don’t think so.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. It feels like he’s flirting with me. Even if he’s not, I’m very much feeling that way.
Heat coils low in my belly, spreading warmth through me.
I pick up another piece of tartine and bring it to his lips. He takes a bite. Then another. With the last one, he bites down lightly on my fingers.
And he does all of it while holding my gaze. This thing has officially started seducing me. And not just into wanting to kiss him.
By the time the plate is empty, I’m well and truly undone—ready to throw myself at him at the slightest signal. But of course, that signal never comes.
I reach for the plate of braciole and pick up the fork to feed him, but he shakes his head.
“Use your hands.”
Who am I to argue? I’m more than happy to feel those soft, wet lips on my fingers again. So I feed him with my hand.
But with the last bite, it’s not just his lips and teeth anymore—his tongue is involved too. The tip of it grazes my fingertip, and the sensation shoots straight to my core with such force I nearly buckle.
I yank my fingers from his mouth.
“My arm’s getting tired. Feed yourself.”
I shove the plate into his hands and practically sprint from the room, flushed from head to toe.
Can he feel this pull too, or is it purely one-sided? If he does, he’s very good at hiding it. Or maybe he feels nothing at all, but if that’s the case, why all these mixed signals? Am I the one misreading them? Perhaps this is just how he is, and I’m overthinking it.
I hold my head, trying to stop the heavy thoughts from spinning it.