Chapter SOPHIA #2
“Deeper work will come,” she adds quickly, as if she can read the impatience in me. “But this gives you something to use now, in your body, without a therapist present. You don’t have to be heroic about it. You just have to practice.”
I look at the stone, then at the bracelet. The bracelet is coarse under my fingers, knotted by someone who probably did it for a reason I’ll never entirely know. I loop it on my wrist because it feels like claiming a small, private right to choose something for myself.
“Can I...?” I start, then stop.
“Yes,” Esther says. “You can use anything: a stone, a piece of cloth, a scent. The important part is that you own the cue.”
I fold the stone into my palm and feel the weight of it, and I breathe. I take another sip of tea, and for this hour at least—the hour where someone listens and names the things that hurt—I am not alone.
When I stand to leave the suite, the corridor light looks a touch kinder. The panic hasn’t gone, but there’s now a practical map in my pocket and a small object that answers when my chest starts to run away.
Later, I’m in bed with the phone still in my hand. The screen reflects the faint glow from the lamp, waiting for me to unlock it, to do what Raffael said I could do.
I should call Marcello. I should tell him I’m safe.
I should tell him… something. Anything. But the thought of hearing his voice unravels me.
I can already imagine the way it will sound—relieved, maybe choked, maybe worried—and I know I’ll break.
I’ll cry until I can’t breathe, and he’ll hear every sob, and there will be nothing he can do about it from where he is.
I don’t want him to hear me like that. I don’t want anyone to.
So I just lie there, the phone still resting in my palm, my thumb brushing over the dark screen.
Thinking turns into staring. Staring turns into a slow, heavy drift.
And before I realize it, my eyes slide shut, and I’m asleep with the phone still clutched in my hand like a lifeline I’m too afraid to use.
The dark closes in before I’m even aware I’m dreaming. Cold metal bites into my wrists, the chain rattles in time with my heartbeat. I can’t see him, but I can smell him, that mix of cologne and smoke that remains steeped in my skin, no matter how many times I scrub.
The click of the lock is louder than thunder, and then he’s there. Roberto. Smiling like it’s our anniversary. Like this is something to celebrate. The leather collar is already in his hand.
"No…" My voice is paper-thin, useless. The chain jerks, and my knees slam into the floor. He’s talking, I can’t hear the words over the pounding in my head, and then his hands are on my throat. Squeezing. My lungs burn. Black dots bloom in the corners of my vision.
I claw at him, uselessly, until my nails rake skin. He tightens his grip, laughing. My chest feels like it’s going to split open.
And then—
The hands are bigger. Warmer. The chest under my fists is wider. The voice in my ear is not cruel, but low, steady, urgent. "Sophia, it’s me. It’s me, bella mia. You’re safe. Breathe for me. That’s it. You’re here with me. No one’s going to hurt you again."
The smell is different now, cedar and soap instead of cologne and smoke. My hands are still fisted, but the body I’m pounding against doesn’t push back. It holds me. Surrounds me.
I break. Sobs tear out of me, each one shattering what’s left of my strength. He rocks me gently, murmuring words I can’t catch, his hand moves slowly up and down my spine until the tremors ease.
Only then do I realize I’m awake. And the tears soaking his shirt are real.
I'm not in my oppressive bedroom in Roberto's house.
This one is light and welcoming. I'm in Raffael's house.
In Raffael's arms. I clutch his chest that's so wide it could hide me from the world.
His hair is damp; he must have just gotten out of the shower, washing himself of… Roberto.
A sudden need crashes over me, so deep, so primal, it wipes out every scrap of reason, every fear that’s kept me caged. I need to feel. Not just anything. Him.
I want to feel Raffael, his warmth, his steadiness, something real enough to drown out the ghosts still clawing at me.
There’s no shirt between us. No barrier. Just the solid heat of his skin under my cheek, the steady thud of his heart telling me I’m here, I’m alive, and this is not a dream.
"Raffael." His name scrapes out of my throat, harsh, broken, like it’s been locked inside me for years.
His arms tighten around me instantly. "I’m here, bella mia," he says, the words low and certain, a promise that wraps around me as securely as his hold. "I’m always going to be here for you."
I lift my head, my eyes search frantically for his, and the need swells until I can’t breathe past it.
"Kiss me."
A deep groan escapes him. His features contort like I've tortured him for days. "Oh, Soph."
It's like he dropped a bucket full of ice water over me.
Roberto was right, no man would ever want me.
Not after the vile things he did to me. The vile things I allowed him to do to me.
I don't know why Raffael came for me when he did.
But it doesn't look like it was because of any kind of romantic ideas he had, at least not the kind I've been harboring for him.
"I'm sorry," I manage, scooting back.
"No." His voice is sharp enough to cut through my shame, and before I can retreat further, his hands are on me again, pulling me back into the heat of his chest.
"You don’t understand," he says, and there’s something fierce in his eyes now, something that makes my breath catch. "I want you, Soph. More than life. I’ve wanted you from the moment I first saw you. That hasn’t changed, not for a second. Not for a single heartbeat."
I open my mouth, but he shakes his head, cutting me off.
"But I don’t deserve you." The words are rough, like they’re being torn from somewhere deep inside him. "I wasn’t there when you needed me the most. I should have been. God help me, I should have burned the whole world down to get to you sooner."
His forehead dips until it rests against mine, his breath mingles with mine, warm and unsteady.
"And I’m so—so damn sorry for it, bella mia.
Sorry for every day you spent thinking you were alone.
Sorry for every night I didn’t come. Sorry that you ever had to doubt your worth, when to me, you are… everything."
The tears sting hot in my eyes, and my chest tightens around the truth in his voice.
"You’re not broken, Sophia," he murmurs, his thumb brushes over my cheekbone like he’s trying to erase every scar Roberto ever left behind. "You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. And I swear to you, as long as I’m breathing, no one will ever touch you like that again."
The words settle over me like a blanket, heavy and warm. He wants me. Has wanted me. Always. "I don't understand… why won't you kiss me?"
"Because you’ve been through a trauma, something nobody should ever have to endure," he explains, "And I don’t want you to think there’s a price to pay for you being here. For me coming for you… even if it was too damn late."
His hands tighten on mine, like he’s afraid I’ll pull away again. "You don’t owe me anything, bella mia. Not a touch, not a kiss, not a single word you’re not ready to give."
The lump in my throat swells until I can barely breathe past it.
"I came because you matter to me," he continues. "Because I couldn’t stand knowing you were in that place another day. Because the thought of you hurting—it’s…" He stops, exhales hard, like the words are dangerous if he says them wrong. "It’s something I can’t live with."
I don’t know what to say. My mind is still tangled, torn between the shadows Roberto left behind and the warmth of the man holding me now.
"I want you to kiss me. Not because I feel like I owe you anything.
Because I want to erase his feel on my skin, his nauseating presence.
I'm twenty-two years old, and I've only ever been kissed the way I should be kissed, tenderly, lovingly, once.
By you. And I want it to be you again, Raffael DeSantis, who does that. "
I swallow and feel my face heating. I've never been that forward in my life.
No, strike that. I used to be that forward.
Always. Until Roberto beat it out of me.
I want that back. I want the old Sophia back.
The one who threw herself at one of her father's soldiers, consequences be damned.
And I know there is only one man in this world who can do that for me.
I stare up into his eyes. I don't think I can take another rejection.
"Are you sure?"
I suppress a laugh; it would be loud and hysterical. "Just as sure as I was when I was eighteen," I confess.
With a hungry groan that belies the way his arms move around me, tender and slow, he pulls me toward him.
I keep my eyes open. I closed them every time Roberto touched or kissed me, wanting to escape reality.
Not tonight. Tonight, I want to know what it truly means to be desired.
Tonight, I want to know if all those movies have been lying when a man and a woman writhe on the bed, moaning.
"Bella mia," he groans, right before his lips, ever so tenderly, brush against mine. I listen carefully, but there is not a fiber of my being that's protesting, that feels threatened. His lips linger, testing, tasting, as if one wrong move might shatter me completely.
I’ve been touched before—too many times—but never like this.
Never like I was something worth holding gently, worth savoring.
The way his hand cradles the back of my head, the feather-light press of his mouth, the warmth of his breath between kisses…
it feels like I’ve stepped into another world, one where I’m not bracing for pain, one where touch doesn’t burn.
For a heartbeat, my chest aches in a different way, like I’m grieving the years I lost, the years no one kissed me like this.
His thumb traces the line of my jaw, slow, reverently, as though mapping a treasure he doesn’t want to forget. Every movement is careful, measured, but beneath that restraint, I can feel the tension coiled in him, the hunger he’s holding back for my sake.
When he deepens the kiss, it’s by inches, like he’s giving me time to change my mind. Like he’s promising me, this is mine to choose, mine to control.
I don’t pull away. I lean in.
And something inside me, some locked, withered part, cracks open just a little.
I’ve spent years shrinking under someone else’s hands, years closing my eyes to survive. Tonight, I keep them open because I want to see. I want to remember.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breathing sounds rough, and his voice is barely more than a whisper. "I’ll never hurt you, bella mia. Not in any way. Not ever."
"Show me, show me how a man should make love to a woman," I beg.