Chapter 29
Gemma
We don't talk that night.
Saint holds me. We have desperate, urgent sex. The kind that's more about confirming we're alive than actual intimacy.
Then we sleep. Or try to.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything.
Igor's death. The gunfire. Saint covering me with his body.
I love you.
He said it in the middle of chaos like it was pulled out of him by fear. It had been desperate because we both thought we were going to die, and while some women might find those dying words sweet, I wasn't one of them.
In the quiet dark, he hasn't repeated it, and it makes me wonder if he meant them.
He kissed me sweetly, and then, fucked me dirty, but we didn't talk. We never talk.
That's one of our problems.
He does something. I react. We fight. We fuck, and then, we pretend everything is okay. The problem with that cycle is that things are okay for a while, even if neither of us are really happy.
I sigh, turning over to stare at Saint. The moonlight is playing across his features. Even in sleep, he looks serious, and I want to reach out to smooth the lines between his eyes.
I love you.
Those words ring in my mind, and I want to ask him if he meant them.
I simply don't know how.
I close my eyes, my mind racing. I need to sleep, but I can't.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Morning comes. Saint is already up and dressed just like he always is. I've never met someone who functions on such little sleep.
I didn't fall asleep until three in the morning, and I'm groggy as I come to.
"Where are you going?" I ask, eyes barely open.
"Meeting with the captains," he says. "They want to talk about last night. There's a new player, and I imagine that it's only a matter of time before Artem makes a move."
"Okay," I pull the blanket up to my chin.
"I'm also meeting with the other families."
I pause. My fingers grip the edge of the blanket. The other families. My brothers. I close my eyes, taking a deep breath.
In. Out. In. Out.
This is one of those things we don't talk about.
Saint stops and his green eyes are filled with concern. "Gemma? Are you okay?"
"Am I okay?" I laugh, and the sound is hollow. "You told me that I helped Artem efficiently kill a room full of people and seize power. So, no."
I'd been thinking about that all night. Igor's easy, drunk smile. The way he'd been so gracious to us, thanking us, inviting us in for a night of peace, how he'd tried to keep me from Alexei's clutches, even putting his own life on the line to do so.
My stomach turns.
"Gemma—"
"Go to your meeting. We'll talk later."
I need time to process. The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster, and I feel like my brain has been too flooded with every hormone in the book. I need to breathe. To think. To be alone. Saint is too distracting. We fall into one another too easily.
He hesitates. "I'll be back as soon as I can, alright?"
I nod. "I'll see you soon."
I stay in bed. Thinking.
My plan failed. I got Igor killed and helped Artem, the very person I was trying to thwart.
I'm a strategist who played directly into the enemy's hands.
It won't happen again.
Saint thinks I'm dangerous now. A weapon he can use.
But is that what I want? To be used?
I wanted power, respect, equality.
But as what? Saint's attack dog? His strategic consultant? His pretty wife who occasionally gets to play at being important?
What do I want? He asked me that before all of this, and I still don't have an answer.
I do know what I don't want.
I don't want what Bianca desired for me.
Or what Adrian expected.
Or what Saint thinks I want.
What do I actually want?
That's the question that keeps me up at night.
Because I feel like I'm floating around, unmoored, and it's fucking with my brain.
I want Saint. I want…more…I just still don't know what that more is.
Saint comes home late. It's past midnight, but I'm still awake, sitting by the window, thinking.
"Hey." He comes over and kisses my head. "You've been in here all day." It's a statement. A reminder that everything I do in this house is watched, especially these days. Because I've proven myself untrustworthy—multiple times.
Saint hasn't said it, but I know he thinks it, and it's just another example of how things between us haven't changed.
I sigh. "We need to talk."
"About?"
I turn to look at him. "About what happens next. About what you said. About me being a weapon."
He sits down across from me. "I meant it as a compliment. I was Antonio's weapon," he says it so easily, like it's not an insult, and it's because he doesn't see it that way.
"A weapon is an object," I lean forward. "You were never Antonio's weapon. He groomed you to take over. You always had power."
Saint closes his eyes, sighing slightly. I know he's frustrated. He doesn't understand what I want. Hell, I don't either, but he's never going to understand because he's a man.
"I don't see you as an object, Gemma," he says, slowly. "I don't know what I need to do for you to understand that."
"Don't you?" My voice rises. "You've been deciding what I am since we got married.
First, I was the unwilling bride. Then the liability.
Then the ghost. Now I'm the weapon. You just assume I'm happy to be used, as long as I agree to it, but I'm not happy, Saint.
I've been used my entire life. It's exhausting. "
He's quiet.
"Last night you said you love me," I continue. "In the middle of gunfire. When you thought we might die. You said it." It comes out more accusatory than I intend.
Saint nods. "I did."
I hate his ability to just shut down and pretend. I know Saint's brain doesn't work like my own, but it doesn't mean I can't find his reticence maddening.
"Do you still mean it? Now? When we're safe and you're not terrified?"
He meets my eyes. "Yes. I love you," he says it so simply. Like I should already know it. And though it should make me happy, it pisses me off.
"But you don't trust me."
He presses his fingertip to his temples.
"I do trust—"
"No," I snap. "You don't. Please, don't lie to me."
"Gemma, you don't understand."
"You say you love me. You say I'm dangerous. But I know you haven't forgiven me." I blink back a tear. "And I don't know if I've forgiven you."
He glares, dropping his hands.
"That's not fair—"
"Isn't it?" I stop in front of him, so that we are as eye-to-eye as we can be.
"You gave me to Adrian. You watched as he beat me, and then, sat by and said nothing as he disowned me.
I went to Alexei—twice. I put all of us in danger.
I take responsibility for that, but you've never really taken responsibility. "
"I was trying to save the family—"
I throw my hands up in irritation. "By sacrificing me. Yes. I know. You've said." My voice cracks. "You just moved on, and you expected me to be grateful that I was still here."
"I am sorry—"
"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, you're still making decisions for me. About me and without me." I sit back down on the window bench. I am so tired. "You want me to be a weapon. Fine. But who's holding the weapon, Saint? Who's aiming it? Who decides when and where and how it's used?"
He doesn't answer because he doesn't have an answer. Not one that I would accept. And Saint is a lot of things, but he's not stupid.
"You do. It's always you. Because you're the Don. You're in charge. And I'm just..." I trail off. "Your wife."
Silence. Long. Heavy.
"What do you want?" he finally asks. "Really. Tell me what you want."
"I want to matter. Really matter. Not as your wife. Not as decoration. Not as a tool you pull out when convenient." I look at him. "I want to be your equal."
"You can't be my equal in the family. No one is—"
"I know. I understand how this works." I lean forward. "But in here? In this marriage? In our partnership? I want to be equal. I want to be trusted. Consulted. Respected. Not managed."
"I do respect you—"
"Then why did you send me away last night?"
He blows up before I can even think to expect it.
"Because I needed you safe! Because I couldn't think straight with you there.
Because if something happened to you—" His voice breaks, and he's panting.
"I can't lose you, Gemma. I can't. And when you're in danger, I don't think.
I just react. I just try to protect you. "
I close my eyes. His words, they make me melt, but I need to be strong.
"I don't need protection. I need trust."
"I do trust you—"
"No. You don't." I stand again, walking towards him. "You love me. But you love me like I'm something fragile. Something to keep safe. And I'm not. I proved that when I killed Alexei."
He takes my hands. His calloused thumb plays across my knuckles. "That's not—you're twisting what I'm saying—"
"Am I? Because it sounds like you want a weapon you can control. A partner you can manage. A wife who's dangerous but obedient. And I can't be that, Saint. I can't be dangerous on command and docile the rest of the time."
"What do you want from me?" His voice is raw. "Tell me. What the fuck do you want me to do?"
"I want you to stop deciding for me! I want you to ask instead of order. To discuss instead of decree." I move closer to him. "I want you to see me as an actual equal. Not someone to protect. Not someone to use. Someone to partner with. Really partner with."
"I'm trying—"
"Are you?" "Tears are streaming down my face now. "You say you love me. But you don't act like it. You act like you love the idea of me. The potential. Not the actual person standing in front of you."
"That's not true—"
"Then prove it." I step back. "Stop talking about what I could be. What I should be. What you want me to be. And start asking what I actually am. What I actually want."
He stares at me. Lost. Confused. Hurt.
"I don't know how," he finally says. Quiet. Broken. "I don't know how to do this. How to love you without trying to protect you. How to trust you without controlling you. It's not in my nature to love, Gemma. And when I do, it's going to look like this."
And there it is. The truth.
He doesn't know how to love me and let me be free.
"Then we need to figure it out," I say. "Because I can't do it this way."
"I don't want you under my control—"
"Don't you?" I tilt my head. "Be honest, Saint. Really honest. Don't you want to know where I am? What I'm doing? That I'm safe and protected and not making decisions that scare you?"
He's quiet.
"That's what I thought." I move to the bathroom. "I need space. Tonight. Tomorrow. I need to think."
"Gemma—"
"Please. Just give me this. Give me space to figure out what I want. Who I want to be. Without you telling me. Without you deciding for me."
I close the bathroom door.
And I sink to the floor, crying.
Because I love him. God, I love him.
But love isn't enough.
Not if he can't see me. Really see me.
Not as potential. Not as a weapon. Not as something to protect or use or manage.
Just as me.
Gemma.
Whoever the hell that is.