Chapter 25
The atmosphere in the house changed after that day.
With the threat of Silvio resolved—locked away in a concrete cell—the lingering panic that had been lodged deep in my throat, that metallic taste of fear, finally dissipated.
The exhaustion of motherhood began to become routine; Leo was sleeping through the night (most of the time), and his toothless smiles in the morning were the sun of my universe.
The tension between Marco and me had changed. It was no longer the caution and fragility of “What if I break her?” It was the tension of electricity.
I found myself watching him. The way his broad shoulders stretched the fabric of his shirt as he assembled a complicated toy in the living room, muttering curses under his breath in Italian.
I watched the way his large, steady hands held Leo during bath time, with a gentleness that contrasted with his brute strength… and the way he looked at me.
When I was breastfeeding, I could feel the weight of his gaze—not clinical, but hungry. When I passed him in the narrow hallway, I could feel the heat radiating from him and the hesitation in his hands, which wanted to touch me but held back.
The sex we’d had months ago—that night of adoration and healing, without penetration—seemed to have happened in another life.
The man watching me now, from across the kitchen island… was the wolf, and the woman watching him back was no longer the broken patient.
It was a Friday night. The housekeeper had left. Leo was fast asleep in his room.
Marco and I were having dinner in the kitchen, leftovers from Thai takeout, while we talked about work.
“…and if I move the assets of the Asian subsidiary before the acquisition, I can avoid the luxury tax,” I was saying, twirling my fork in the pad thai.
“Risky,” he said, taking a sip of red wine, his eyes fixed on my lips. “But brilliant.”
Our eyes locked, and the air in the kitchen grew thick and heavy.
“You think so?” I whispered, and my voice came out hoarser than I’d intended.
“I’ve always thought you were brilliant, Bianca. Dangerous and fucking gorgeous.”
I stopped eating and let out a carefree laugh.
I loved him with a ferocity that surpassed my love for the empire, for power, for anything I had ever known.
I stood up, and Marco watched me, pausing with his wine glass halfway to his mouth.
I walked around the kitchen island, my bare feet silent on the cool tile. I didn’t stop until I was between his legs, where he was sitting on the barstool.
He looked up, surprised, his pupils dilating.
“Bianca?”
I placed my hands on his face, feeling his stubble scratch my palms, and kissed him.
I felt him tense beneath my touch—and then react with explosive force. His hands flew to my waist, gripping me tightly, pulling me into the space between his thighs.
“Dio, Bianca…” he murmured against my mouth, the taste of wine and desire on his tongue.
“Bedroom. Now!”
I pulled away, dragging him by the hand with a strength I hadn’t used in months. He followed me without hesitation, tripping over the kitchen bench in his haste, knocking over a wine glass that shattered on the floor. Yet neither of us looked back.
The moment our bedroom door slammed shut and the lock clicked, months of restraint exploded.
There was no gentle foreplay. Clothes weren’t removed with reverent care; they were torn off. My fingers fumbled with his belt, and I heard fabric tearing as he pulled at my dress. Buttons flew across the floor like hail. Zippers were yanked open with brutal urgency.
Nervous laughter mingled with hungry moans as we stumbled toward the bed, mouth-to-mouth, skin-to-skin.
He threw me onto the mattress, following me immediately, falling on top of me with that familiar, perfect weight I’d been longing for so much.
The passion of our first night was back, but purified by fire.
No anger, no hatred. Just a desperate, almost violent need to be as close as possible, to erase any space that still existed between us.
“I love you so much,” he growled against my skin, his hot mouth trailing down my neck, biting my sensitive skin, marking me as his. His hands were everywhere: on my breasts, on my waist, gripping my thighs with a possessiveness that made me arch my back.
“Show me,” I gasped, instinctively wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him closer and demanding contact.
He rose above me, propped up on his arms, his shoulder muscles taut beneath a sheen of sweat. His green eyes burned with an intensity that would have frightened me months ago, but which, at that moment, only aroused me.
He didn't ask for permission; he just guided himself into me, rubbing the head of his cock against my wetness, drawing a loud moan from my throat.
When he entered me, it was a shock. Deep and complete.
Marco thrust all the way in at once, burying himself deep inside me. The sensation of being filled was so intense that my vision went white for a second. He filled every empty space, silencing every doubt that still lingered in the back of my mind.
I screamed his name, digging my nails into his back, scratching his skin, wanting to leave my mark on him just as much as he was leaving his on me.
He began to move, and the rhythm was not hesitant, but relentless. Marco thrust into me with an intensity that made me forget my own name, hitting that spot inside me that made my toes curl and my head spin.
Each thrust was a physical promise. I’m here. I’m yours. We’ve survived.
I arched against him, matching his rhythm, grinding my pubic bone against his, lost in the sensation of friction, heat, and sweat. My hands roamed over his arms, his chest, his hair—I needed to touch every part of him to be sure it was real.
“Look at me,” he commanded, in a tense, guttural voice, sweat dripping from his forehead and falling onto my chest.
I opened my eyes and saw everything I needed to see. His devotion, the raw passion, and the man who had gone through hell to come back to me.
The orgasm hit me like a hot, white wave, sweeping away the past, the pain of the scar, and the fear. I screamed, clenching around him, squeezing him in delicious spasms.
I felt Marco lose his last shred of control. A guttural roar escaped him, the tendons in his neck bulging, as he came inside me with final, brutal thrusts—a final, absolute act of possession and surrender.
We collapsed, tangled in the sheets, our hearts pounding wildly against each other and our ragged breaths filling the room.
We spent minutes like that, simply existing, letting the adrenaline subside and the real world gently settle around us.
Slowly, I turned, resting my head on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat slow beneath my ear. I traced an invisible line across his sweaty chest with my finger, feeling peace settle into my bones.
“I forgive you, Marco.”
I felt him freeze instantly beneath mine. He stopped breathing for a second. Then his arms pulled me close with overwhelming force, as if he wanted to merge me with him.
“Bianca…” His voice was choked up, thick with emotion.
“I forgive you for the Duomo, for abandoning me… for everything.” I lifted my head, resting my chin on his chest to look into his eyes, which glistened with tears in the dim light. “But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Anything.” He took my hand and kissed my palm, his lips unsteady against my skin. “I’ll give you the world.”
“I don’t want the world. I want you.” I grew serious, my eyes locked on his. “Promise me you’ll never lie to me again, never doubt me, and never run away. Even when I’m difficult… even when I’m cruel… stay.”
He let go of my hand and placed his on my face, caressing my cheek with sacred reverence.
“I’ll never leave you again, Bianca Ferraro. I swear on my life and on his.”
I believed him. Not because I needed to, but because I could feel the truth vibrating in every word.
I snuggled back into his chest, closing my eyes and listening to the strong beats of his heart. The Ice Queen was gone, washed away by everything we’d survived. Only Bianca remained, and for the first time in a long time, she was whole.