Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Caroline
That night was the calmest I could remember.
Noah and I sat on the porch, a storm threatening on the horizon. We drank coffee and watched the lightning far off, each flash like a camera catching us in a perfect moment.
Afterwards, he made dinner—homemade gnocchi, served with a slow-cooked Ragu. We ate in the dining room, laughter echoing off the stone walls. I told him he should open a restaurant, and he grinned, saying, “Only if you bake the desserts.”
When the dishes were cleared, he pulled me into the living room, and we curled up on the giant couch, blankets and pillows everywhere.
“You know,” I said, tracing circles on his arm, “you don’t have to keep rescuing me.”
He turned, dark eyes soft. “I’m not. I just want you to know you’re worth protecting.”
His words hit somewhere deep.
I climbed into his lap, straddling him, and kissed him, slow and lingering. He slid his hands up my back, under my shirt, skin to skin.
He peeled my clothes away, piece by piece, never rushing. He took his time, kissing every inch, every scar, every soft part of me.
He worshipped my breasts, sucking and nipping until I was breathless. He moved lower, tongue teasing down my belly, pausing just above where I needed him most.
I begged, and he smiled, then pushed my thighs apart and buried his mouth in my pussy.
He ate me like he was starving, licking and sucking until I trembled and came, gasping his name.
Then he stood, carried me to the bedroom, and laid me out on the sheets.
He undressed, his cock thick and hard, the sight of it making me ache.
He slid inside, slow at first, letting me feel every inch. The stretch was exquisite—so full, so right.
He fucked me deep, hands gripping my hips, pace relentless until I begged him to come.
He did, pulsing inside me, groaning low in my ear.
After, he stayed on top of me, not moving, just breathing me in.
We fell asleep tangled together, the world outside fading to nothing.
Sometime after midnight, the phone on the nightstand buzzed.
Noah was up instantly. He answered, listened for a long moment, then went rigid.
He hung up, dressed in seconds, and gently shook me awake.
“Caroline. There’s something you need to see.”
I threw on clothes, heart pounding, and followed him down to the SUV.
We drove fast, headlights slicing through darkness.
He took my hand, squeezed it. “There was a fire.”
My stomach dropped. “Where?”
He didn’t answer.
When we got to the bakery, the street was chaos—fire engines, hoses, lights everywhere. The smell of smoke hit me before I even stepped out.
Flames still licked the roof. Water gushed across the sidewalk. A crowd watched from behind caution tape.
Noah walked me past the barricade, the fire chief nodding us through.
I stood in front of what was left of my dream and started to cry.
The windows were shattered. The wood was blackened, warped. Everything I’d planned, every hope, gone in a night.
Noah wrapped his arms around me, held me as I sobbed.
“They did this on purpose,” I choked.
He nodded, jaw clenched. “The Romano family.”
I looked up, desperate. “What do we do?”
He stared at the fire, face turned to stone. “They didn’t destroy your dream. They just declared war.”
He kissed my temple, then let go, walking straight to the fire chief, speaking in low, urgent tones.
I wiped my face, trying to stand tall, trying not to let the world see me broken.
But inside, I was wrecked.
Noah came back, took my hand again. “We’ll rebuild. And I’ll make sure they never touch you again.”
His eyes were black with rage, but his voice was steady.
I believed him.
I always did.
But as we drove back to the estate, I realized something else:
The war wasn’t just about the bakery.
It was about us.
And there was no turning back.