Chapter 29
POV: Amanda
But Giuliana stepped closer. Her eyes scanned me, sharp as ever, weighing me like scales. And then, slowly, her arms wrapped around me.
“Almost dying for my son,” she said softly, her voice carrying that iron edge that never dulled, “is a good enough proof for me. You’ve earned our trust back.”
The breath I’d been holding rushed out of me. My throat burned. I hugged her back, shaky, overwhelmed. For the first time, I wasn’t just surviving among them—I belonged.
Adrian led me into his room like it was the most natural thing in the world. My room, now. Ours. The air still carried the faint scent of him—dark cologne, clean linen, safety. And then my gaze snagged on the canvas over the bed.
Riccardo’s painting.
Me. My face, my body captured with that same boyish intensity of his brushstrokes. It stopped me cold. My throat tightened.
And then I noticed the balcony table. Rows of medicine bottles neatly lined up, my name written on each label. And on a scrap of paper—Adrian’s handwriting, bold, slanted—times for every dose. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. Like he’d memorized my heartbeat and refused to let it falter.
“You’re really taking care of me?” I asked, voice thinner than I wanted it to be.
He turned. His eyes softened, and before I could blink, he was pulling me by the waist. His lips brushed my forehead, my nose, finally my mouth—each kiss gentler than the last, like he was stitching me back together.
“Forever,” he said simply. His certainty made my knees weak.
Then his smirk returned, sharp and sinful. “But first, I’m giving you a bath. You smell like hospital.”
I laughed, a low chuckle that tugged at my stitches. “You’re really telling me you’re going to see me naked and not have sex? Really, King? You’re capable of that?” I arched a brow, testing him.
His smirk deepened. “I didn’t say it’s going to be easy.”
Heat curled low in my stomach.
He undressed me slowly, reverently, careful with the bandages.
Each layer he peeled away felt like a promise.
His hands were steady, sure, sliding fabric down my shoulders, over my hips, until I was bare in front of him and trembling.
Not from fear. From the way he looked at me—like I was something sacred.
The tub steamed, the water laced with some faint scent of lavender. He eased me down into it, his hand firm at my back, like he didn’t trust the world not to break me again.
“You should join me,” I murmured, sinking deeper into the warmth.
He gave a quiet, rough laugh, kneeling beside the tub. “I can’t promise control if I get in.”
I splashed him with water, grinning. “Coward.”
That did it. With a shake of his head, he stripped, piece by piece, his eyes never leaving mine. And then he slid into the tub behind me, heat and muscle wrapping around me like a second skin.
His cock pressed hard against the small of my back, a silent betrayal of his self-control. His arms came around me anyway, strong, steady, his hands cradling the curves of me like I was made of glass.
“This,” he whispered against my damp skin, his lips brushing my shoulder as he reached for the sponge, “is proof of love, you know. Restraint.”
I closed my eyes, shivering at the drag of his voice. “I know.”
He ran the sponge down my arm, over my collarbone, across my stomach, each movement unhurried.
But it wasn’t just washing—it was devotion.
His fingers brushed my skin as though memorizing me all over again.
Every careful touch said what his words couldn’t: You are mine. You are safe. I’m not letting go.
A week.
Seven whole days.
That’s how long Adrian De Lucca made me wait.
Every night he slept beside me. Every morning I woke to his arm around my waist, his lips brushing my hair. And every damn time I tried—touching him, teasing him, whispering exactly what I wanted—he shut me down with that same quiet steel in his voice.
“Not yet, Amanda. I want you healed. When I finally take you again, you’ll take all of me. My queen deserves nothing less.”
It was torture. Delicious, maddening torture. And tonight, the wait was finally over.
He stood at the foot of the bed, eyes burning into me like molten steel, while I lay back against the pillows, my body thrumming with anticipation.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low and dangerous—the kind of velvet that hides a blade.
I smirked despite my pulse. “If you make me wait another day, King, I swear I’ll shoot you with my own gun.”
That earned me the curve of his mouth—the one that made me weak. He prowled toward me slow, controlled, savoring my threat like wine.
“You’ve been warned,” he murmured, sliding onto the bed. His mouth claimed mine—teeth and heat and no more hesitation. Days of hunger cracked wide between us.
His hands trailed down, unhurried but commanding, stripping me layer by layer until I was bare beneath that hunger. He didn’t just look—he devoured, as if I were the only feast a king could ever crave.
Then his mouth was on me.
He kissed me everywhere, as if relearning the map of my skin. He worshipped me with open-mouth kisses, teased the center of me until I squirmed and ground against him.
“Calmati, mia volpe,” he whispered into my skin—calm down, my fox—his voice rough. “I waited a lot. I’ll wait a little more.”
But when his tongue found me for the first time, I arched off the mattress, a sound tearing free that didn’t feel like mine. He held me down, one hand firm on my hip, while his mouth worked me—slow, precise, then merciless—until I was trembling, fingers knotted in his hair, begging.
“Oh God,—” I breathed.
He lifted his head, lips slick, eyes dark as sin. “Not God, Amanda. Me. Say my name.”
“Adrian,” I rasped, raw with need. “My King. Please.”
He gave me everything I asked for and more—relentless until my body broke in a way that left me dizzy and laughing with relief. Before I could find my breath, he crawled up my body, claiming my mouth, making me taste myself on his tongue.
I shoved at his shoulders with the last of my fire. “My turn.”
His laugh was low and dangerous. “Careful, Amanda. Play with fire and you’ll get burned.”
“Good,” I whispered, sliding down his body. I kissed his chest, his ribs, until I wrapped my lips around him.
He cursed—raw and guttural—my name spilling from him as my tongue worked slow and then deep, learning the way his control frayed under my hands. His hips flexed, fingers threaded through my hair, and the sound of his breath unraveling was an intoxicant I wanted to drown in.
“Brava… mia Regina,” he breathed in Italian, voice thick. The little compliment—good, my queen—made something hot and proud bloom inside me.
I wanted to break him the way he’d broken me. I kept going until he grabbed me, hauling me up with a growl.
“No more waiting.”
He laid me back on the bed and covered me, solid and hot. The blunt head of him nudged my entrance and my whole body convulsed with need. He paused, eyes burning into mine—this was more than sex; it was a vow. He was asking, wordlessly, one last time.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Please. Yes.”
He pushed in—slow, endless, filling me until I felt stretched thin and wholly full. My cry caught in his mouth as he kissed me, swallowing every sound that might let the world back in. We moved together like we were made to: each thrust a claim, each slide of skin against skin a promise.
I met him with everything—I dug my nails into his back, wrapped my legs tight around him, gave him the ferocity of everything I’d felt all week. Not careful. Not slow. Raw and urgent, the rhythm of people who had learned how fragile time could be.
“I love you,” he groaned, torn and raw.
“I love you,” I answered, no holding back.
When we came—together, broken and clinging—it felt like some small, private thing inside both of us finally mended. Pleasure crashed through me, bright and shattering, and I let myself fall into it.
He collapsed onto me after, our bodies slick and shaking, laughter and sobs tangled in the same ragged breath. His lips brushed my temple, then my cheek, then my mouth.
“You almost died,” he murmured, voice rough. “And still—you’re the one who’s killing me.”
I let out a breathy laugh that turned into a smile, then a kiss against his jaw. “At least I’m taking you with me, King.”
He tightened his arms, possessive and tender. “Forever.”
For the first time since everything began, I let myself believe it wasn’t just a promise. It was our truth.