Chapter 37
VIVIAN
The smell of sizzling bacon curled into the edges of my dream.
My eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, I didn’t know where I was.
The bed beneath me was softer than anything I’d ever known, wrapped in dark furs and thick blankets that felt like a cocoon.
The cabin’s warm, cedar-scented air was a stark contrast to the cold, terrifying nightmare I’d escaped.
I sat up slowly, the oversized sweatshirt shifting against my skin. It smelled like Raffaele—spices, sandalwood, and something uniquely him. I pulled up the hem, staring at the pale, smooth skin beneath.
The scars from Lord Thorne’s torture had faded to faint, silvery lines. It was as if I’d been healing for weeks, not hours. I traced the marks with my fingertips, relief and disbelief flooding through me.
My stomach growled audibly, and I got out of bed, steadying myself as my legs protested the movement. My body still felt weak, shaky, but the promise of food—and the curiosity of what Raffaele was doing—was enough to propel me forward.
I followed the smell to the kitchen, stopping dead in my tracks when I saw him.
The most feared man in The Below was standing at the stove with a white apron tied around his waist, flipping pancakes like he was on a cooking show.
I put a trembling hand to my mouth, trying to smother the laugh bubbling in my throat. It was absurd. This man, who exuded dominance and danger, was wielding a spatula like it was one of his deadly weapons.
His head turned sharply, his eyes locking onto mine. A slow, wicked smirk spread across his face, like he’d caught me in some act of mischief.
“Good morning,” he said in a low rumble that made my stomach flip.
“Morning,” I managed, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
His gaze swept over me, and I saw the moment he remembered why we were here. The look in his eyes turned softer. He set the spatula down and strode over to me.
“You shouldn’t be walking around yet,” he said, his brows furrowing as he slipped an arm around me. “Come here.”
He guided me to a barstool at the kitchen island, as though I might break if he wasn’t gentle enough.
“How are you feeling?”
“Weak,” I admitted. “A little shaky.”
He nodded curtly. “I figured as much. That’s why I’m making you breakfast. You need to eat and get some energy back.”
“I thought you couldn’t cook?”
“I never said I couldn’t cook, I said I don’t cook.”
He set a plate piled high with pancakes, bacon, and eggs in front of me, then poured me a glass of water and sat down across from me, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Eat.”
I picked up the fork and took a tentative bite. The food was warm, comforting, and I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until the first taste hit my tongue. I ate slowly, my gaze flicking to Raffaele every few moments. He was watching me with soft eyes but an otherwise unreadable look on his face.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded, drumming his fingers against the countertop. “It’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing. I could feel the depth of his concern through the bond. He was carrying it all silently, for me. Part of me wondered if his feelings were simply from guilt, or if there was something more there.
My eyes drifted to the knives on the counter, their sharp edges glinting in the firelight. The image hit me like a bolt of lightning—Lord Thorne smiling cruelly down at me, the cold blade slicing into my chest.
The fork clattered from my hand as I gasped and squeezed my eyes shut. I gripped the counter, breathing heavily through my nose.
“Vivian.”
Raffaele’s voice pulled me back from the edge. I felt his arms around me, steady and strong. “You’re okay,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re safe. He can’t hurt you here.”
Slowly, my breathing steadied, and I leaned into his embrace, letting the warmth of him wash over me. When I opened my eyes, I found him watching me with a mixture of concern and unbridled anger.
“Are we really safe?” I asked.
“Yes. The wards here are strong enough to keep him out. Even if he found us—which he won’t—there’s no way he could get in. You’re safe, Vivian. I promise you.”
I searched his face, looking for any hint of doubt, but there was none. His conviction was unwavering, and through the bond, I felt the truth of his words.
“Okay,” I whispered.
He took my hand, his touch gentle as he led me from the kitchen. The warmth of his palm against mine steadied me.
“Why don’t we sit by the fire for a while?”
I nodded, and we settled on the couch. He wrapped a blanket around me, and I tucked my legs beneath me.
“We should probably talk about what happened,” he said.
I stiffened, digging my fingers into the blanket, and shook my head. “I don’t want to relive it, Raffaele.”
“I don’t either,” he said gently. “I would never ask you to go through that again. But…” He sighed. “I need to know one thing.”
I met his gaze, already knowing what he was about to ask.
“Did he…” Raffaele’s jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist against his thigh. “Did my father rape you?”
Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision as the memories threatened to surface. “No,” I whispered. “He didn’t.” I drew in a shaky breath, my chest tight. “But he was about to. You saved me from that horror.”
Raffaele’s shoulders sagged, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh. The bond flared with a mix of relief and self-loathing so intense it nearly overwhelmed me. He turned away, running a hand through his hair as his shadows shifted faintly around him, restless and alive.
“I hate myself,” he hissed. “I hate that I didn’t get there sooner. That I didn’t stop him before he could…” He trailed off and stared into the fire. “I should have been faster. Better.”
“Raffaele.” I put my hand on his arm. His gaze snapped to mine, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that stole my breath. “You saved me.”
He shook his head. “Not soon enough.”
“You saved me,” I repeated, my voice steady despite the tears streaking down my cheeks. “I don’t care how long it took. You got there. You stopped him. I’m here because of you.”
His eyes softened, the guilt in his expression giving way to something raw and unguarded. The bond thrummed with relief, protectiveness, and a fierce, unrelenting devotion that left me breathless.
We stared at each other in the flickering firelight, the air between us charged. I didn’t know when it had happened—when this man, who I’d once feared and resented, had become everything. But he had. I was obsessed with him, drawn to him in a way I couldn’t explain, couldn’t fight.
And I didn’t want to fight it anymore.
“Thank you,” I said softly, my voice breaking as I let the walls I’d built around myself crumble. “Thank you for saving me.”
He didn’t respond with words. He didn’t need to. I felt it all through the bond. His guilt, his anger, but also his relief and an overwhelming need to protect me.
Without thinking, I leaned toward him, my hand sliding down to rest over his. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he laced his fingers through mine.
I saw it in his eyes, felt it in the bond. He felt the same pull, the same maddening need.
“I’m not going to fight this anymore,” I said.
His hand tightened around mine. “Vivian…”
“I mean it, Raffaele. Whatever this is between us… I’m not fighting it. Not anymore.”
For a moment, he just stared at me, his eyes searching mine for any hint of doubt. When he found none, his expression softened, something like hope crossing his face.
“Neither am I,” he said quietly, his voice laced with a promise.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Shadows danced across the walls, the low light wrapping us in a cocoon that felt safe, almost unreal. I sat on the couch, my knees tucked up to my chest, watching as Raffaele stared at me as if he could see into my soul.
He took my hand in his, and the breath caught in my throat.
He didn’t look away, didn’t hide the intensity in his gaze as his lips parted.
His presence was overwhelming, as always, but this time, it didn’t feel like a threat.
Tonight, it felt like gravity—inevitable and impossible to resist. I needed him.
I needed to feel something besides the raw ache of the darkness now residing in my soul.
Unlacing our fingers, I ran my hand through his hair. I moved to sit on his lap, but he stopped me. “Vivian, darling, it’s too soon. You’ve been through too much.”
I ignored his protests and straddled his legs, pressing my body against his chest. I wanted to feel him everywhere. I needed his care to consume me—heart, mind, and soul. Resting my chin on his shoulder, I whispered, “Please, Raffaele. Make me feel good like only you can.”
The first touch of his hands on my waist sent a trail of fire down my spine. He was careful, reverent, as though I might break beneath his touch. His thumbs brushed over the sweatshirt, the heat of his palms seeping into my skin.
“I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Vivian.”
“I’m not.”
He nodded, his expression pained, and for a moment, I thought he might let me go. But then he touched my cheek, his fingers featherlight against my skin as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The tenderness in the gesture undid me.
“Are you sure this is what you want? I can just hold you—”
“Please, Raffaele. Please.” My words came out with more desperation than I intended. I knew sex wasn’t a good coping mechanism for trauma, but I felt safe. Cared for. And I needed more.
My pleas resulted in Raffaele’s mouth on my skin. My neck. My chest. His hands trailing up my bare sides.
“Let me show you,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw. “Let me show you how much you mean to me.”
My breath hitched with relief as he leaned in. His lips brushed against mine, soft and tentative, a question more than a demand. It was slow, deliberate, a gentle exploration that had heat pooling low in my belly.