Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Ezio
I thought I was hallucinating.
Just for a split second, when I pushed open that bathroom door, I figured it was the light playing tricks, or some string in my brain snapped too tight, or these past few days of no sleep piled on top of that name spinning in my head too damn long, messing with my senses.
Then she turned, and we crashed into each other, her scent hitting me full force.
Vanilla.
Not a hallucination.
Her soaked shirt lay tossed by the sink.
She had on just a white towel, water droplets clinging to her collarbone.
She stood in my arms, head tilted up, those green eyes wide in that moment, filled with shock, some raw panic she couldn't hide fast enough.
But her body didn't pull back. She just collided into me, no space between us.
Olivia.
Five years.
Her hair hung longer than five years ago, spilling over her shoulders, ends a bit messy, probably from dealing with her clothes earlier.
Her cheekbones curved softer now, but that shadow lingered under them, the kind from too many sleepless nights.
Lips parted slightly, breath coming quick—maybe from the scare, or something else.
She looked even more beautiful than five years ago. Time etched marks on her, the kind that grabbed your gaze and wouldn't let go.
Fuck.
Something thudded dull in my chest.
Then anger swallowed it.
"Let me go!"
I stepped back half a pace, letting her slip out of my hold, but I didn't move aside. I blocked her in the bathroom, counter behind her, walls on both sides, no way around me.
"You're in my house."
Not a question.
She looked up at me, that initial panic lingering in her eyes for no more than three seconds. Then something shifted in her gaze, like a door slamming shut, locking stuff away, leaving something I didn't recognize on the outside—
Cold. Sharp.
"Yeah," she said, voice steady, "if I'd known it was your place, I wouldn't have come."
I stared at her.
She wasn't like this five years ago. Back then, she'd glance away under my stare, inch back half a step when I got close, hold onto some fragile dignity in arguments with a tone I knew she was forcing.
The woman in front of me showed no sign of backing down.
She stood there, towel draped over her arm, skin damp, trapped between the counter and walls, watching me with this goddamn uncomfortable calm, like I was just one more hassle in her day, and she'd seen worse.
"Five years," I stepped forward, bracing my hand on the counter behind her, shrinking the space, "you vanish for five years, then show up in my house, in front of my daughter—you think I'll buy this as a coincidence?"
"You don't have to," she flinched for a beat but lifted her eyes to mine quick, "but it's the truth."
Truth.
The word scraped past my ear, and I heard myself snort coldly. Five years ago, she did the same—vanished without a word, clean gone, not even a spare glance for me. Now here she stood, tossing out "it's the truth" like it meant nothing.
"What's the truth?" I pressed forward another step, no room for her to retreat, her lower back hitting the sink's edge, my shadow swallowing her whole. "Truth is you took the money and ran. Truth is five years of zero contact. Truth is you're back now, standing in my house, dressed—"
My gaze dropped an inch. White towel, wet, clinging to her skin, faint outlines underneath. Collarbone, shoulders, that curve from neck to shoulder, sharper than five years ago, every bone countable.
I yanked my eyes back to hers.
"...dressed like this, right in front of me."
Her breath hitched. Light, quick, lips parting then closing. Her chest rose and fell, those jutting collarbones shifting like trapped butterflies fluttering wings.
"My shirt got juice on it," she said, "I'm waiting for the maid to bring clean clothes."
Her tone stayed calm, like stating something that had zero to do with me.
She stood there, in nothing but a flimsy towel, explaining why she was half-naked in my guest room with this "no big deal" vibe.
Five years.
Five years. What had she been doing, where, with whom? Had she thought about—had she thought about the kid she left behind, about me?
Anger churned in my chest, like boiling water under a sealed lid, steam pressing against metal, no way out.
"Five years," I said, voice low, "where'd you go?"
She didn't answer.
"I'm asking," I propped my hand on the mirror behind her, caging her in my arms, catching the shampoo scent in her hair, that familiar vanilla, "where'd you go?"
Her back pressed against the cool mirror, water vapor beading into tiny drops by her shoulder blades. She lifted her chin, eyes not dodging, but lips pressed into a tight line, so tight the pink faded to a barely visible streak.
"None of your business."
Those words dropped, and the bathroom went quiet.
"None of my business?"
The words poured like fuel on the fire in my chest.
"You left for five years," I said, biting each word hard, "no word, no contact, vanished like you never existed—then you're here now, telling me it's none of my business."
"Yeah," she said, voice still that eerie calm, calm enough to make me want to grab her throat, "I had the kid, finished our deal, then I left. That's my freedom."
"Freedom?" I stared at her, feeling the fire in my chest blaze hotter, "you call that freedom? You signed the contract, took the money, had the kid, then bailed without a word—"
"Isn't that what you wanted!" She raised her voice suddenly, a crack showing in her eyes, "Because of you and your family, your rules, you pushed me away—"
"I looked for you for five years."
The words slipped out, stunning even me.
She froze too, eyes widening like she couldn't believe her ears.
"What?"
"I said, I looked for you for five years." I repeated, fingers tightening, knuckles tapping lightly on the mirror, "I fucking looked for you for five years."
Her breath stopped.
"The morning you left, I came back to your room, found your stuff gone." My voice dropped, like I was talking to myself, "Closet empty, sheets cold, even the towels you'd used were cleared out. I stood there, telling myself you were just a woman I paid for, better off gone."
I paused, locking eyes with her.
"But I couldn't let it go."
Her lashes fluttered.
"I pulled every resource, checked every spot I could. Saw your shadow in every blonde, smelled your scent in every vanilla whiff."
My hand left the mirror, landing on her cheek, thumb brushing the shadow under her cheekbone.
"I told myself it was just obsession, just not wanting to lose, just—" I stopped, drew a deep breath, her scent flooding in, vanilla mixed with steam, "just couldn't forget you."
Something welled in her eyes.
"This..." her voice shook, "this is ridiculous."
"Ridiculous?"
"You couldn't..." she shook her head, like convincing herself, "you couldn't have missed me, you had Bianca, your family, you had—"
"I missed you like crazy." I cut her off, each word clear and sharp, "I fucking missed you like crazy."
Her breath quickened, chest heaving, towel shifting on her.
"No!" she shoved me, "no, you're lying!"
"I'm not lying."
"You're lying!" She shoved harder. "You couldn't have missed me, you couldn't—"
She twisted to leave, and I grabbed her wrist.
"Let go!"
"No."
She spun back, yanking her wrist free, but I held on. She tugged hard, and the towel loosened in the motion, slipping off, pooling on the tile floor. She didn't grab it, just lifted her head, eyes flashing anger, embarrassment, something else spilling out uncontrolled from somewhere deep.
Her hand flew up, slapping me.
A sharp crack echoed off the tile walls, then faded.
My head turned to the side, stayed there, unmoving.
Heat bloomed on my cheek.
I slowly turned back, looking at her. Her chest heaved, hand still raised in the air, that calm shattered completely, nothing left but her raw self—anger, five years, something held too long finally bursting free.
My sanity snapped right then.
I clamped her wrist, pinned her against the mirror, leaned down, closing the distance to nothing.
"Let—"
I kissed her.
Not some gentle, testing kiss. The kind that plundered, almost violent, like devouring her whole.
She struggled, hands pushing my chest, trying to shove me off. But I didn't let go, pressed her tighter, tongue prying her teeth apart, invading.
Her taste stayed sweet, with a salty edge—tears mixing in, probably. Her body went rigid, muscles taut like a drawn bow.
Then she bit me.
A sting shot through my tongue tip, blood taste spreading in my mouth.
I pulled back a bit, looking at her.
Her lips smeared with blood, my blood, gasping, eyes burning.
"You're an asshole," she said, voice trembling, "you're a goddamn asshole!"
"I know," I said, then kissed her again.
She stood still, didn't bite, but didn't respond either, just stiff as a statue.
My hand slid down her spine, stopping at her waist. Slim, so slim one hand could circle it, skin hot, trembling under my touch.
"Ezio—" her voice leaked through our lips, broken, damp, "let go!"
Her struggles weakened, soft sobs turning to whimpers, until she went limp against me, something screaming in her eyes' depths. "I hate you."
"No." My hand kept going down, slipping under her panties' edge. "You want me."
"I don't."
"Liar." My fingers pressed through the thin fabric, her body jolting hard, legs nearly buckling. "You're soaked, Olivia. Dripping mess."
Her face flushed red, from neck to ears.
"Shut up!"
"Your body's more honest than your mouth." My fingers hooked the edge, tugging down slowly. "You want me, you need me, admit it, Olivia."
"You—"
"Shh." My fingers reached her dripping entrance, grazing lightly. "Let me see how bad you want it."
Her panties slid to her knees, legs clamping tight, trying to stop me. But I ignored it, pushed a finger in.
Her body tensed like a wire, head snapping back, thudding softly against the wall.