Chapter 17
He’s still standing there when Alessandro leaves—
chest rising hard, jaw tight, eyes storming.
The sound of the door slamming feels like it seals us in together, in the middle of something neither of us knows how to survive.
The phone is still in his hand.
My name still burns on his lips from the way he shouted it.
And all I can think about is how close I came to being dragged out of this room.
To the warehouse.
To the place no one comes back from.
He almost let it happen.
Almost.
And yet when I look at him now, there’s something broken in his eyes. Not fury. Not hate.
Something more raw.
Something that looks a hell of a lot like guilt.
He runs a hand over his face, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “I almost let him hurt you,” he says again, quieter this time, like it’s not meant for me at all.
I should tell him that “almost” isn’t good enough.
That I’m still shaking.
That fear tastes like metal in the back of my throat.
But I can’t.
Because the ache in his voice does something to me that no amount of logic can fight.
I’ve spent my whole life chasing the truth, but this—this is something else.
Something I can feel in my bones.
He looks at me like I’m both his sin and his salvation.
And I can’t stand another second of the distance between us.
So I move.
Slowly.
Cautiously.
Every step feels like walking into fire.
Maybe I’m scared he’s still angry.
Maybe I’m scared he’ll turn away.
Maybe I’m terrified that I’ve been imagining all of it—the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking, the way his breath stutters when I stand too close.
But I take one more step anyway.
Until I’m standing right in front of him.
Close enough to feel the heat coming off his body, close enough to smell smoke and soap and the faint metallic trace of adrenaline.
I lift my hand, hesitating for just a second before pressing it flat against his chest.
His heartbeat slams against my palm.
Hard. Fast. Real.
He shivers.
Just that—one slight tremor—but it’s enough to undo me completely.
“But you didn’t,” I whisper.
His eyes flash, dark and burning, before he reaches for me.
The phone drops from his hand, and then his mouth crashes into mine.
There’s nothing soft about it.
It’s fire and fury and everything we’ve been holding back for too long.
I gasp, but he doesn’t give me time to breathe. His hands slide into my hair, his body pressing mine back against the desk.
It’s angry, desperate, hungry—like he’s trying to erase every word he ever said that hurt me, every doubt he ever had.
And God, I let him.
Because this isn’t the kind of kiss you stop.
It’s the kind that consumes.
The kind that tells you exactly how much you were both breaking before this moment.
I always thought kisses were supposed to be sweet—
gentle, soft, a promise.
I was wrong.
This kiss isn’t a promise.
It’s a confession.
It’s everything neither of us could say without destroying ourselves.
And when his hand tightens in my hair and his body presses me harder against him, my knees nearly give out.
He catches me before I fall, still kissing me like the world outside this room doesn’t exist.
For the first time in days, maybe in years, I don’t feel fear.
I feel alive.