30
The early light of dawn did little to soothe the storm inside me. I stood by the high windows, watching the world come alive, but my mind wasn't on the world below. It was on her, sleeping peacefully just a few feet away.
She had no idea the chaos she had unleashed in me. No idea of the lengths I was willing to go to for her.
My phone buzzed on the counter, and I moved swiftly to silence it before it woke her. I read the message. It was Dimitri,"We've got him. He's at the warehouse."
I gripped the edge of the counter, the force of my anger making the polished surface creak under my fingers. Finally.
The warehouse was as cold and unyielding as I felt. The scent of metal and dust filled the air as I walked into the cavernous space. My men waited silently, forming a loose circle around the man slumped in the chair.
At first glance, he looked pathetic—a frail figure, shaking and wide-eyed. But I knew what kind of monster lurked beneath that unassuming exterior. I knew the devastation he was capable of, the pain he had inflicted on someone who deserved none of it.
He flinched when I approached, his gaze darting around the room as though searching for an escape. There wasn't one.
"Do you know who I am Sam?" I asked, my voice low but laced with menace.
He nodded quickly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.
"Good," I said, circling him slowly. "Then you know why you're here."
"P-please," he stammered, his voice trembling. "I—I didn't mean—"
"Didn't mean?" My voice was a snarl, sharp enough to cut through the air. I grabbed the back of his chair, leaning down until our faces were inches apart. "You didn't mean to destroy her life? To take something that wasn't yours to take?"
He shook his head frantically, his lips forming words that wouldn't come out. The sight of his fear only stoked the fire inside me.
I wanted to kill him.
"You're pathetic," I said, straightening. "A weak, spineless coward. And people like you..." I turned to one of my men, who handed me a steel rod. "...they don't deserve forgiveness."
The first strike was calculated—not enough to kill, but enough to break. He screamed, the sound echoing off the walls, but I didn't stop. Each blow was a release, a physical manifestation of the rage that had consumed me since the moment Lenora told me her story.
By the time I stepped back, my breathing was heavy, and his cries had turned into pitiful whimpers. Blood dripped onto the concrete floor, pooling around the legs of the chair.
"Leave him," I ordered, tossing the rod to the side. My men looked at me, waiting for further instructions.
"Make sure he's delivered to the authorities," I said, my voice cold. "With enough evidence to ensure he never sees the light of day again. Understood?"
I would've killed him, in fact would have love to do it myself. But a part of me knew Lenora would never forgive me for such a heinous crime.
They nodded and moved to carry out my orders. I turned and walked away, each step a struggle to keep the darkness from consuming me completely.
I returned to my mansion that evening, the weight of the day's events pressing down on me. And there she was, her smile lighting up the dim room.
"You're back," she said softly, her eyes searching mine.
"I told you I'd come back," I said, stepping inside and pulling her into my arms. The feel of her against me was like a balm to my frayed nerves.
"You're tense," she observed, her hands resting lightly on my chest.
"It's been a long day," I admitted, my fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. "But it's better now."
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down, but I caught her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze.
"You're mine, Lenora," I said, my voice low and firm. "And I will destroy anyone who dares to hurt you. Do you understand?"
Her eyes widened, a mix of fear and trust swirling in their depths. But she nodded, her lips parting slightly as if to say something.
"Good," I said, leaning down to capture her mouth in a kiss that was both possessive and tender. She melted against me, her hands clutching my shirt as though I were her lifeline.
Later that evening, I found her curled up on the couch, a book resting on her lap.
How did she get a book here?
The soft glow of the lamp illuminated her face, casting a golden hue over her delicate features. She looked serene, but there was a certain melancholy in the way her fingers traced the edge of the pages.
"What are you reading?" I asked, moving to sit beside her.
She glanced up, startled, as though she hadn't noticed me watching her. Slowly, she held up the book. When the Lemon Trees Grow.
My brow furrowed. "What's it about?"
Her lips pressed together for a moment, and she glanced back at the cover, her fingers brushing against it as though it were something sacred.
"It's about Syria," she said softly. "About the war, and the people who were left behind, and the ones who had no choice but to leave."
I studied her, noticing the way her voice wavered, the way her grip on the book tightened.
"It's personal for you," I said, more of a statement than a question.
She nodded, her gaze fixed on the cover. "I was just a kid when we left. My mother used to tell me stories about the lemon trees back home—how they were a symbol of resilience, of hope. This book... it feels like a piece of home I'll never get back," she breathed.
"When we left, I didn't understand why we couldn't stay. I was just a kid, and all I knew was that we were leaving behind everything we'd ever known."
"You're half Syrian," I said, nodding the little details she had shared with me before. "And half Russian."
She smiled faintly, a bittersweet expression. "I mean.. yes we fled to England when the war got bad because my mother thought it would be safer for us. She was right, but..." Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that we survived."
Every piece of her mattered.
She was a lot stronger than she realized.
"My father," I continued, her voice sadder now.
"Part of him loved my mother once upon a time, but his family didn't. They didn't accept her because she was Syrian.
They thought she was beneath him, that she was.
.." she trailed off, and I could imagine the bitterness of the memory making her throat tighten.
"Did he stand by her?" I asked, voice low but steady.
"He tried at first... when he thought he wanted us," she said with a sad smile.
"But they never made it easy. When the war broke out, he said we had to leave.
He wanted us safe, but he was the one who left, grabbing the first opportunity to escape despite his wife and kid being in danger, I think a part of him was relieved to get away from us. "
The vulnerability in her voice, the quiet pain in her eyes—it hit me like a punch to the gut.
"You've been through more than most people could ever imagine," I said, voice low but with conviction. It was the truth. "And yet, here you are. Stronger than ever."
She blinked back the tears threatening to spill.
"I don't feel strong," I admitted.
"That's because you don't see yourself the way I see you," I kissed her teary cheek
"Luca..." she murmured.
"Hmm?"
"You're dangerous," she said, her voice half-teasing, half-serious.
I couldn't help but smirk. "Only to people who deserve it. You, on the other hand..." My hand moved to cup her cheek, thumb brushing lightly against her soft skin. "You make me want to protect, to care, to..." I stopped himself, my jaw tightening.
Slow the fuck down Luca.
"To what?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
My eyes darkened, a storm brewing within them. "To keep you. Always."
It hit me in the stillness of that night, long after Lenora had drifted off to sleep beside me. The soft rise and fall of her breath, the way her delicate features softened in slumber—it was inescapable.
She had cracked something in me, something I hadn't even realized was so tightly bound. My world had always been sharp edges and unyielding walls, but she had slipped through, her innocence and quiet strength breaking through my defenses.
I was in love with her—utterly and irrevocably. And it wasn't just a feeling; it was a need, a claim. She was mine, and there was no turning back.