Chapter 38 Sophie
Sophie
I’m curled on the couch when the weight of it all finally crashes down on me.
It’s been building for days and grows heavier every time Vin leaves, every time I catch myself imagining a future that will never exist.
The light slanting through the window is golden, highlighting dust motes dancing in the air. I should be at the restaurant prepping for dinner service. Really, I should be doing anything other than lying on the couch wrapped in a blanket that smells like him, staring at nothing.
But I can’t move.
Is this what depression feels like? Or is this kind of crash normal after the crazy high of being with Vin the past couple days?
Because the last few days I’ve been basically flying. His hands on my body, his voice in my ear: You make your padrone happy. The crazy earth-shattering moment when my body breaks open for him.
And of course la mia regina. My queen. My upgrade from princess, from being one of the many faceless women he’s fucked over the years.
I close my eyes and the words echo through my brain, burrowing deeper than they should.
Siena’s voice plays on repeat: There’s no scenario that ends with him being the loving husband and father you want.
I know. Frick, I know.
But knowing doesn’t make my heart stop doing this stupid, reckless jolt every time he walks into a room, every time he touches me.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars.
This is what I do. This is who I am: the girl who falls for men who will never fall back. Who gives everything and expects nothing. Who cooks elaborate meals for people who barely remember to say thank you.
Except Vin always says thank you, and somehow that makes it worse.
The front door opens and I don’t move, don’t even turn my head. He shuts the door with a bang, and I can picture him without looking: leather jacket, dark jeans, hard set jaw that means he’s been dealing with his brothers.
“Princess, I’m starving. What are you—” He stops mid-sentence.
I can feel his gaze on me.
“Sophie?”
“Hi,” I manage, my voice small. “I’m not feeling well. There’s leftover osso bucco in the fridge if you want to heat it up.”
The couch dips as he sits on the edge beside me, his hand on my shoulder through the blanket.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I try to smile but I’m too exhausted to make it work. “Just tired.”
His hand slides to my forehead, checking for fever with a gentleness that makes my throat tight. “You’re not warm. Are you sick?”
“No. Just…” I trail off because I can’t finish that sentence. Just heartbroken over something that was never mine to lose. Just terrified of how much I want to keep you. Just realizing that I’ve fallen completely, irrevocably in love with a man who will never, ever love me back.
He’s silent a moment, his thumb tracing small circles on my temple. I hate how good it feels, how my stupid heart speeds up at his touch.
“Did something happen?” His voice has that edge it gets when he’s ready to hurt someone. “Did Rocco come back? Did someone—”
“No.” I curl tighter into myself. “Nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
You, I want to say. You happened. You and the fact that in a few days or weeks or months, you’ll leave, and nothing will ever feel like enough again.
But I can’t burden him with feelings he never asked for, so I choose my words carefully.
“I think I’m just coming down from everything,” I say finally. “The adrenaline, maybe, the rush. I don’t know.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, his hand still moving in those slow circles. Then he shifts, sliding behind me on the couch and snaking one arm under me as he pulls me into his chest. My head fits perfectly under his chin, his heartbeat steady against my ear.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.
“Vin—”
“Just do it. I’ve got you.”
With those three words alone, my whole body relaxes as I melt into him.
I close my eyes and let myself have this moment and pretend that I’ve got you means more than until the war is over.
Or until he finds a suitable wife or gets bored or remembers that I’m nothing more than a safe house and a warm body.
His fingers thread through my hair, and he presses his lips to the top of my head.
“Rest, regina,” he whispers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
A tear slips free before I can stop it, soaking into his shirt. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Either way, he holds me until the sun sets and the room fills with shadows.