Chapter 13 Gemma #2
"I focused on finding my footing. Studying. Being valuable as best I could." It all feels ridiculous now. "Then, she informed me of—" I glance at Saint.
"Our marriage." There's no emotion behind his words. He's stating a fact.
I nod. "Turns out I was only valuable for what was between my legs." I close my eyes tightly. "And hell, I'm not even fulfilling that part right."
I can't help the self-deprecation that drips from my voice.
Saint stops. Turns to me, and for a moment, I think he's going to take me in his arms and smooth all my worries away. It's what I want more than anything—for someone to see me, to care.
Instead, he pushes a strand of hair from my face, looks deeply into my eyes with his green ones, and says: "Come on. I'm starving. Let's see what's in the kitchen."
I blink, sure I'm losing it.
In fact, I'm not losing it. Saint, indeed, wanted to cook. And as much as he gave me whiplash out on the beach, this is—nice. Somehow, exactly what I needed.
We cook together. Pasta, nothing fancy, but working side by side feels intimate in a way our bedroom encounters never have.
Saint's surprisingly competent in the kitchen. "Lyla taught me," he explains when I comment. "Said a man who can't feed himself is helpless."
"You? Helpless?" I laugh. "I can't imagine it."
"You'd be surprised." He tastes the sauce, adjusts the seasoning. "I'm good at violence. Good at strategy. But the normal shit? I had to learn."
We eat on the deck despite the cold, bundled in blankets, watching the sun set over the water.
"This is nice," I say softly.
"Yeah." His hand finds mine under the blanket. "It is."
I want to freeze this moment. Preserve it like one of the paintings I used to dream about restoring.
Because I know it can't last.
That night, he comes to me differently.
No urgency. No roughness. Just Saint, crawling into bed beside me, pulling me close.
"Hi," I whisper. I want to tell him that I've missed him. I've missed the feel of his body on mine, the dirty words he whispers in my ears. Instead, I tell him those simple words.
He kisses me slowly. Thoroughly. Like he has all the time in the world and wants to spend it learning every inch of my mouth.
His hands slide under my nightgown, but not with their usual purpose. Just touching. Exploring. Like he's memorizing me.
"Saint—" I moan.
"Shh. Let me touch you."
He pulls the nightgown over my head, lays me back on the pillows. And then he just... looks at me.
"You're staring," I say, suddenly self-conscious. I want to cover my body. His green eyes are too intense. Does he think I'm too fat, still? Or am I now too thin?
"You're beautiful."
His words cut through my insecurities.
"Do you mean it or are you insulting me?" I hate how small I feel.
He ghosts a kiss down my throat.
"I meant it before. I mean it now." His hand traces from my collarbone to my hip. "Every time I look at you, I..."
"What?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing. Just let me touch you."
He explores my body like it's the first time. Fingers tracing patterns on my skin. Mouth following the path of his hands. When he reaches my breasts, he takes his time, kissing and sucking until I'm arching into him.
"Please," I breathe.
"Not yet."
He moves lower, pressing kisses down my stomach, my hip bones, the inside of my thighs. When his mouth finds me, I gasp.
This isn't like before, when he made me come as a means to an end. This is worship. Devotion. Like my pleasure is the point, not just preparation.
I come apart under his mouth, crying out his name.
He moves back up my body, settling between my thighs. Enters me slowly, carefully, watching my face the whole time.
"Okay?" he asks.
I nod, pulling him closer. "I've missed you," I admit.
He moves with aching slowness. Each thrust deliberate. Measured. His forehead rests against mine, and we breathe the same air.
"Gemma," he says my name like a prayer.
Our eyes lock, and I see something in his that makes my chest ache. Something vulnerable. Real.
"I—" He stops himself. Swallows hard.
"What?" My heart is pounding.
"Nothing. Just...you're perfect. This is perfect."
I want to tell him I love him. The words are right there, pressing against my teeth.
But I swallow them back. Too dangerous. Too real.
Instead, I kiss him, pouring everything I can't say into the contact.
We move together, slow and sweet, until we both shatter. And afterward, he doesn't pull away. Just holds me, face buried in my neck.
"Sleep," he murmurs. "I've got you."
For the first time in six months, I feel safe.
The next morning, I wake to find him already up, standing at the window with his phone pressed to his ear. His shoulders are tight.
"Understood," he says. "I'll be back tonight."
He hangs up, and when he turns to me, the softness from last night is gone. His face is carefully blank.
"What's wrong?"
"That was the doctor. Antonio's taken a turn. He's declining faster than they expected." He runs a hand through his hair. "We need to go back."
I sit up, pulling the sheet around me. "How much faster?"
"Weeks. Maybe less." His jaw tightens. "I thought we had more time. When I left, he was…" he searches for the word, "alert."
Guilt crashes over me like a wave. Antonio is dying, and I've been playing games with Alexei. Making deals that could destroy everything right when Saint needs stability most.
What have I done?
"Saint, I'm—"
"Don't." He's already getting dressed. "It is what it is."
"But—"
"We knew this was coming." His voice is flat now. Detached. "Just happened sooner than expected."
I watch him button his shirt, each movement mechanical. The man who held me last night is gone, replaced by the cold strategist.
"I guess you'll be off the hook sooner than you thought," he says, not looking at me.
I freeze. "What?"
"Antonio dies, the pressure for an heir eases up. You'll probably get what you wanted all along—freedom from this whole situation."
The words hit like a slap. "That's not—I didn't—"
"I need to call the captains. Pack up. We're leaving in an hour." He walks out without waiting for a response.
I sit there, sheet clutched to my chest, feeling like I've been doused in ice water.
Off the hook. Like I've been counting down the days until Antonio dies so I can escape. Like last night meant nothing. Like everything we've built together was just me biding my time until I could be free of him.
The guilt that was crushing my chest a moment ago transforms into something else. Something hot and sharp.
How dare he? After last night. After holding me like I mattered. After almost saying—whatever he was going to say.
How dare he reduce me back to the unwilling wife who wants out.
I get dressed mechanically, throwing clothes into my bag. My hands are shaking.
I'd been about to tell him about Alexei. To confess. To ask for forgiveness and find another way.
But why should I? He just made it clear what he thinks of me. What I am to him.
A burden. An obligation. Someone who can't wait to be free.
Fine. If that's what he thinks, then maybe he's right.
Maybe I should take every opportunity I can get.
By the time we're in the car heading back to the city, I've rebuilt every wall he'd torn down. Reinforced every defense.
And the guilt? I bury it deep.
Antonio's dying. Saint doesn't trust me anyway. And I have a deal with Alexei Morozov that I'm apparently going through with.
Because what's the alternative? Go back to being dismissed? Treated like a fragile thing that needs protecting?
Told I'll be "off the hook" like I'm a fish he's planning to throw back?
No.
I stare out the window, watching the landscape blur past, and make my choice.
Saint thinks I want freedom. Fine.
I'll take it.
Whatever the cost.