Chapter 14 Nico
I hear her before I see her. Light footsteps padding across the hardwood, the faint drag of her hand along the wall as she makes her way into the living room after dinner.
She’s tired, I can read it in her posture, in the slow lift of her eyes when she finds me on the couch, remote in hand, pretending to be choosing something to watch.
Truth is, I’ve been waiting for her.
All fucking day. Ever since that conversation yesterday where she called me sir, I’ve been hard as fucking stone. My restraint and her tiny winces of pain are the only thing stopping me from stripping her bare and making her come so hard she blacks out from the pleasure.
She looks… softer tonight. Wrapped in one of the cashmere sweaters I bought her, hair damp from her shower, skin flushed a warm pink from the heat.
Her ribs still make her move carefully, and every time she winces, something sharp and violent coils inside my chest. That’s what makes this woman so dangerous.
Not because I want to fuck her so bad my dick hurts, but because I want to hold her afterwards and make promises I have no business making.
“Are you working?” she asks, voice small around the edges.
“No.” I pat the couch beside me. “Come sit.” I’m playing with fire here, and I know it, but I can’t help myself.
She hesitates, she always does, like she’s checking whether it’s safe to be close to me. Safe for her, or safe for me, I can’t tell. Either way, the answer is no.
But she comes.
She curls up cautiously on the cushion next to mine, leaving a polite few inches between us. The distance is ridiculous. Infuriating. Necessary. I haven’t decided which.
“What are we watching?” she asks as she tucks her legs beneath her.
“Something pointless.” Translation: something that will stop her from thinking.
She gives me a look. “You hate pointless.”
“I can make exceptions.”
Her lips twitch, the closest thing to a smile she’s managed tonight. It hits me in a place I didn’t realize had gone cold.
I pick something quiet. Slow. Warm lighting, soft music, a story with no explosions. She relaxes by degrees, her shoulders lowering inch by inch, breath deepening.
Halfway through the movie, her head tips sideways.
Slowly.
Gently.
Until it lands against my shoulder.
She doesn’t seem to realize she’s done it.
I stop breathing anyway.
Her weight is light, warm, unbearably soft. I can feel the way her breath fans across my collarbone. The way she unconsciously scoots closer, until the entire length of her body is pressed against my side.
My hand twitches with the urge to touch her, to run my hands over her silky skin, and make her feel good.
To pull her in.
To hold her the way my body is begging me to.
I don’t.
I sit perfectly still, staring at the screen without seeing a damn thing, fighting every instinct I have. I don’t get to want this. I don’t get to want her. Especially not when someone out there is trying to burn her life to the ground because of me.
But then… her hand slides down to my arm.
Barely a touch.
Barely anything at all.
Except it feels like everything.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out. Her body goes soft and heavy with sleep, the kind of sleep she hasn’t let herself fall into since the attack, if the shadows under her eyes are any indication.
My chest tightens.
She feels safe.
On me.
With me.
It shouldn’t mean as much as it does.
When the movie ends, I look down at her. She’s completely gone, cheek pressed to my shoulder, eyelashes brushing my shirt. She looks younger like this. Softer. Breakable in a way she’d hate me for noticing.
Carefully, so fucking carefully, I slide an arm beneath her knees, another behind her back.
She murmurs, barely waking, but doesn’t resist as I stand.
She fits against me like she was made for it.
Christ.
My ribcage feels too tight as I carry her down the hall. I’ve carried people my entire life—mafia soldiers, civilians, victims, threats, but never like this.
Never like she weighs more than my own pulse.
In her room, I lower her onto the bed, slow enough that her hair fans across the pillow. She stirs, eyelids fluttering. I pull the blanket up to her waist, resisting the insane urge to press my lips to her forehead.
I straighten, turning toward the door.
“Nico?”
Her voice is small. Sleepy. Vulnerable in a way she never lets herself be.
I freeze.
She blinks up at me, eyes heavy with exhaustion. “Don’t go.”
My throat goes tight. “You’re safe. I’m right outside.”
She shakes her head, barely a movement, but it’s enough. “Stay… here.” A breath. “With me. Just until I fall asleep.”
Every muscle in my body locks. Because I can’t. Because I want to. Because staying is a line I don’t trust myself not to cross.
She whispers, “I feel safe when you’re close.”
And that’s it. That’s the hit that takes me down.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Slowly. Carefully. Like any wrong move will shatter us both.
She shifts, making space, reaching for me without even opening her eyes fully. Instinct over logic. Need over fear.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t, but God help me, I want this piece of her.
I lie down beside her, on top of the blankets, putting an ocean of restraint between us even as she curls instinctively into the warmth of my body, forcing me to curl my arm around her and tug her close.
Her hand finds my chest, the lightest of touches, but my body is on the edge and electricity zings through me straight to my cock.
My heartbeat is a hammer.
“Nico?” she whispers, already fading.
“Yes, Belle?”
“Thank you… for staying.”
I swallow hard. “Go to sleep.”
Her breathing steadies almost instantly, and I lie there rigid with the weight of her trust, her warmth, the shape of her body fitting against mine like something I shouldn’t touch.
Just until she falls asleep.
That’s what I tell myself.
But even after sleep takes her again, I don’t move.
Can’t move.
Because there’s a monster hunting her.
And tonight, I’m the one standing watch.
And God help anyone, even myself, if they try to take this away from me.
Because I’m starting to think this woman might be mine.