Chapter 13 Nico
I know she’s awake long before she steps out of her room.
I hear the soft shuffle of her moving, the careful shift of her weight on the floorboards, the muted curse under her breath when her ribs pull too tight.
I stayed in my office most of the morning, door cracked open, pretending I wasn’t listening for her.
Pretending I’m not becoming the kind of man who counts her footsteps.
After I showed her the clothes I’d bought for her and made her lunch, I’d retreated to my office and closed the door.
She’s temptation wrapped in a soft cloak and I needed to get myself together.
Throwing myself into my uncle’s betrayal was the perfect reminder of why I can’t let anyone but my brothers close.
It took the sound of her shower running to break that resurrected control to dust.
I shouldn’t be this aware of her.
And yet, I am.
Rossi comes by, silent as a ghost, slipping a tablet onto my desk. “Perimeter is clear. Extra cameras are live. The feeds are triple-encrypted.”
“Good.” My voice comes out lower than I intend. “Anything suspicious?”
“Not yet.” A pause. “But, Nico… she needs you calm. You tense, she’ll feel it.”
I shoot him a look. He doesn’t flinch. “Am I that obvious?”
“You’re obvious to anyone who knows you.” Rossi gives a respectful nod, the closest thing the man has to affection, then disappears down the hall.
I don’t get the chance to analyze that comment because I hear her door open.
And she steps out.
Slowly. Carefully. Wearing one of the soft long-sleeve tops I bought her, slate blue, hugging her curves gently, dipping along her collarbone in a way that should be illegal.
She looks delicate. But not fragile. Just… breakable in a way that makes my chest tighten.
She spots me leaning against the doorway of my office and her steps falter just a fraction, as if she’s bracing to see how I’ll act this morning.
I straighten.
“Hi,” she says quietly. Her voice is rough from sleep, softer than usual. “Um… I hope it’s okay that I wore this.”
Her fingertips brush the hem of the shirt. She doesn’t realize her small gestures gut me more than anything she says. Her face looks worse than ever, the bruises turning an awful green-yellow as she heals. But she’s still stunningly beautiful in a way that’s timeless.
“It’s more than okay,” I say, too fast, too honest. I clear my throat. “It suits you.”
Color rises in her cheeks.
Fuck.
Dangerous. This is dangerous.
“You sleep at all?” I ask.
“A little.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Did you?”
Not enough. Not well. Not without replaying the image of her sitting on that bed with her shoulders curled in and fear she couldn’t hide.
“Enough,” I lie.
Her lips press together. She doesn’t call me on it, but she sees more than I want her to. She makes me feel exposed. This woman is supposed to be my enemy, and yet, I can’t find my earlier anger at her. Without her article, I wouldn’t have been aware of my uncle’s betrayal. At least not in time.
She drifts into the kitchen, her movements slower than usual, careful. I follow without meaning to, like gravity.
“Coffee?” she asks, reaching for the mugs.
I should tell her no. I should tell her to sit, rest her ribs, let me handle it.
But something about the way she moves through my kitchen, my territory, as if she belongs here, makes the words die in my throat. “Yeah,” I say, watching her far too closely. “Coffee would be good.”
She measures grounds, pours water, starts the machine. I watch her do it: the small frown of concentration, the way she tries not to favor her right side, the soft hitch of breath when she stretches too far.
Domestic. Gentle. Intimate in a way that makes my pulse go off rhythm.
She slides a mug toward me. “Here.”
“Thank you.” My voice is rougher than the coffee.
She sips hers, leaning against the counter. “So… I guess we should talk about this research plan. If I’m going to help, I need access to…”
“No.” Too sharp. I force myself to soften it. “No raw files. No direct names. I’ll filter what you get.”
Her eyes narrow. “Nico—”
“You’re not arguing.” I step closer without thinking. “I’m serious, Belle. You get the wrong piece of information at the wrong time, and you’re not just endangered, you’re leverage.”
She swallows, but she doesn’t look away. “Information is my job.”
“Keeping you breathing is mine.”
Her breath stutters.
I don’t move.
She doesn’t either.
A tension pulls tight between us, humming, crackling, and just when I think one of us might actually step into it, her phone buzzes in her pocket.
She startles, pulling it out before looking down at the screen.
The name on her screen, Jamie, flashes.
A coworker. I know because I had Rossi send me a list of her office staff.
Still, something hot and sharp flares in my chest before I can smother it.
She hesitates before answering, glancing at me as if she’s trying to read my reaction. Good luck. I barely understand it myself.
“Hey,” she says into the phone. “Yeah… I’m okay. I promise…. No really, I’m—”
Her eyes flick to mine again.
My jaw clenches.
She turns away slightly, her voice quieting, and something territorial and irrational stirs in my blood.
I hate it. I hate how it feels. I hate that I feel it at all.
“I’m sure, Jamie, but thank you for the offer. I appreciate it.” A pause as she listens to him speak, a small smile flitting on her pillowy lips. “Yes, I’ll call you in a few days.”
She fucking won’t be. I’ll string that bastard up by his balls first.
She hangs up after a moment, cheeks slightly pink. “Sorry. A friend from work.”
“Hmm.” It’s all I trust myself with.
She gives me a look, curious, almost amused, and I know she noticed.
“Jealous?” she teases lightly.
“No.” Too fast, too flat. She arches a brow. “Why would I be jealous? We’re nothing to each other.”
Christ. The second I see the light fall from her eyes at my harsh words, I want to kick my own ass.
What a fucking dick. But then that’s who I am.
It’s better she gets used to it. “Focus,” I snap lightly, more at myself than her.
“Sit. We’re going through what you remember from your notes, from the article, from the tip you got eighteen months ago. ”
She moves to the island, one hand braced against the stool as she lowers herself carefully. I take my seat beside her, close enough that her knee almost brushes mine.
Almost.
I open my laptop.
She leans in, but I can feel her retreat from me. I hurt her feelings. I never would have cared before but now I find myself wanting to fix it.
Her shoulder brushes my arm, and instead of pulling away like I should, I lean in slightly, increasing the pressure. Her hair smells like citrus and clean skin and something warm that shouldn’t be affecting me this fucking much.
She starts talking quietly, focused, all business, tracing lines between old interviews, half-remembered comments, money trails she couldn’t follow fully because she didn’t have the access her job would allow.
Her voice is soft but sharp, her mind quick, making connections faster than I can type. And the longer we sit shoulder-to-shoulder, the more aware I become of the heat of her body.
At one point, she shifts closer to point at the screen, and her thigh presses against mine. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make heat crawl through me. I don’t move and neither does she.
But my cock goes hard as steel in my pants. Fuck.
“Does that fit what you know?” she asks, looking up at me through her lashes.
I stare at her mouth for a second too long before forcing my eyes back to the screen. “It fits.”
“Then what aren’t you telling me?”
Smart girl.
Too smart.
“Pieces that you aren’t ready for,” I say quietly. “Pieces that could get you killed if you repeat them.”
She watches me, searching for something. I let her look, but not too deep.
“I lost everything in that apartment,” she murmurs suddenly. “Everything that smelled like home. And it’s stupid, but I keep thinking about my dad’s watch and my mom’s ugly angel statue. The Christmas ornaments I’ve collected over the years—”
Her voice breaks.
Just barely.
A fracture line in her armor.
Without thinking, my hand moves to hers. Just a brush. Just a grounding touch.
She looks down at our hands like she’s surprised to see them touching.
So am I.
I should pull away.
I don’t.
“You’ll get through this,” I say softly. “You’re not alone.”
She breathes in, shaky. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not.” My thumb grazes her knuckles, barely. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
She looks at our hands again. “But as you said earlier, we’re nothing to each other. When this is over, you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine. We won’t see each other again.”
Fuck, I knew that comment would bite me in the ass.
Her words strike at a soft part of me reserved for my family.
The thought of not seeing her again feels wrong.
It makes me want to lash out at those who’d try and take her from me.
“I was a dick for saying that. I didn’t mean it.
The truth is, you affect me, Isabella, and I’m not sure how to feel about that. ”
Her smile is like the lights being switched on in a dark room, it fills me with something warm. “So, what you’re saying is you like me.”
I snort a laugh. “Okay, let’s not get carried away.”
“Uh-uh, no way. You can’t take it back. You like me and that’s that.”
“Fine, I don’t hate you. Now stop being a pain in my ass.”
“So, now we’re friends, can I decorate your penthouse for the holidays?” she asks suddenly, voice thin with an attempt at humor.
I blink. What the fuck? “Decorate?” I echo. “My penthouse?”
She smiles, tired, fragile, hopeful, but real. “Just a little. I think it needs… some magic.”
Magic. In my protected, quiet, steel-and-glass place.
I should say no.
I should shut that down immediately.
Instead, I hear myself mutter, “We’ll see.”
Her smile grows and something in my chest feels unreasonably warm. Before I can say anything else, or act on the insane urge to lean closer, she shifts, her hand brushing mine again. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“For what?”
“For not letting me fall apart.”
I swallow hard. “You can,” I say. “If you need to.”
She goes still, eyes widening faintly. “You terrify me, and not in the way I thought you would.”
“I won’t apologize for that.”
And I can’t do this anymore. One more second and I’m going to have her splayed out like my next meal, tasting her until she screams my name. “Come on,” I say gruffly, standing before I drag her onto my lap like a madman. “You’re tired. We’ll pick this up after dinner.”
She nods, gathering her notebook, and I watch the way she moves out of the room, slower than she used to, but steadier too.
Stronger.
She’ll be fine.
She has to be.
I stand alone in the kitchen long after she’s gone, staring at the doorway she disappeared through.
My mind is running.
My blood is loud.
And every instinct I have is screaming the same thing.
If I’m not careful, if I’m not disciplined, if I don’t put a wall between us, she won’t just be someone I’m protecting.
She’ll be someone I can’t live without.