REBECCA
I wake up screaming. My lungs burn, sweat slicks my skin as the nightmare's icy fingers still choke me: the guard's gun swinging toward Alessio, me frozen, the stiletto heavy in my hand, the deafening crack of the shot, the way his body jerked and crumpled.
Blood—hot, slick, endless—coursing over cold concrete.
His eyes going glassy as he stared at me one last time, a silent plea I couldn't answer.
"Alessio!"
I bolt upright. My heart is hammering so fiercely I'm sure it'll burst through my ribs.
My chest heaves, my veins pulse with adrenaline, my scalp tingles from the remnant terror.
The room is dark. The bed is soft, but doesn't feel real, not until I feel his presence.
He's already there, warm and solid, rushing to my side.
He climbs onto the mattress and wraps me in his arms before I can even finish screaming his name.
"Hush, babe. I'm here," he murmurs, his breath like a caress against my overheated skin. He presses his lips into my hair, and the sound of his heartbeat thrumming beneath my ear is like a balm, slowing the frantic drum in my chest. "I've got you. I'm right here."
I cling to him like a crab; my limbs are trembling so hard my teeth chatter.
My arms and legs are locked around him, my chest pressed against his, holding on to him with all I’ve got.
Feverishly, my fists grab onto his shirt, grabbing, holding, desperate to anchor myself in his warmth, to prove he's not a figment of terror.
His heartbeat reverberates through my palms, a steady drum that courses through my veins and tames the panic coiling in my belly.
He's alive. He's here. He's not crumpled and bleeding because I froze.
"I thought—" My voice cracks, ragged and unsteady. "I dreamed… I didn't kill him. He shot you. You were gone. You were—"
"Shh." He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, to my cheek, to my lips, each one grounding me deeper in the safety of his flesh. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here, mia piccola diavoletta. Feel me."
A tremor of need flashes through me, deeper than fear.
I need more. I need to feel him everywhere, alive, pulsing, mine.
I push him onto his back and climb on top, straddling his hips.
My fingers fumble at his shirt, tearing buttons free as electricity hums between us.
When the last button pops, his skin greets mine: warm, solid, a living promise.
I lean back, pressing my core onto the thick length already aching against me, the proof of him pulsing.
He lets out a low hiss as my hand reaches for his belt. The zipper slides down under my trembling fingers, and I cradle him, feeling every vein, every pulse, as if discovering him anew.
"Beccs," he groans, his voice thick with want. His hands clamp around my hips, anchoring me as I sink down in one urgent slide. Heat floods my belly, radiates out to the tips of my fingers and toes. He fills me so completely I can't tell where he ends and I begin.
"Fuck, babe—"
I don't wait. I ride him hard, each thrust a tide that rolls through my core, making it sing and flutter with each stroke.
My hips grind with raw need, chasing that perfect junction of pleasure and release that only he can ignite.
With every fierce plunge, my breath catches, my nipples brush the silky material of the shirt—the only piece of clothing I'm wearing—and a delicious burn blossoms between my thighs.
"That's it," he rasps raggedly as he watches me. "Ride me, babe. Take what you need. Use my cock like a good girl."
I dig my fingers into his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart matching mine, and move faster.
My skin melts to his, slick with sweat and heat, as I chase the thunderous pulse of him inside me.
He rips my shirt over my head, and the sudden freedom makes my breasts bounce with every movement, my nipples achingly poised.
He cups them roughly, thumbs rolling my hardened peaks until a sharp sting twists with pleasure and I cry out.
The fire blossoms, coiling in my veins, lighting me from the inside out.
"These perfect fucking tits," he growls, pinching harder. "Look at you riding me like you own me. So wet. So greedy. This tight little pussy is squeezing me so good, Beccs. You feel that? How deep I am? How full you are of me?"
I arch up, moan, "Yes—God, Alessio… I need you. I need to feel you."
With a suppressed groan, he sits up, one arm loops under my back to pull me flush against him.
For just a second, I worry about his broken ribs, but then his mouth descends on my nipple, sucking and biting just enough to make pleasure bleed into pain and send my vision spiraling, and all conscious thoughts cease.
My body quivers, every nerve alive, every moment sharper than the last.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my skin, thrusting up into me. I feel each inch of him, feel the hot surge of desire spilling through me, turning nerves into lightning. "I'm right here, babe. Deep inside you. Feel me. Feel how hard I am for you. How much I love this pussy. How much I love you."
I shatter with a broken cry, and the world explodes in white-hot bliss.
My walls clamp around him as in a final, desperate pulse he buries himself impossibly deeper, releasing a guttural groan that resonates through my core.
He flips me onto my stomach, never pulling out.
His body covers mine as one large hand grips my hip and pulls me back onto him, each thrust from behind a claim, a declaration.
"Mine," he growls against my ear, every syllable vibrates through me. "This pussy is mine. This body is mine. You're fucking mine, Beccs. Say it."
"I'm yours," I pant, pressing back against him, craving every brutal inch. "I'm yours, Alessio. Only yours."
His hand slides forward to find my clit, rubbing tight, scorching circles as he hammers into me from behind.
The friction sparks a new blaze between my legs, and his other hand returns to my breast, pinching and tugging until pain and pleasure meld into one exquisite ache.
I clench around him, each pulse a testament: we're alive.
He's alive. I am alive. That's all I need. All I've ever needed.
"Come again," he demands in a low, filthy tone. "Come on my cock while I fill you up. Let me feel you milk me, baby. Take every drop like the perfect little girl you are."
My body obeys without thought. I collapse, trembling, sobbing his name, my walls fluttering and squeezing in rhythm with his pounding. I feel him shudder inside me, bury himself deeper; his release floods me with heat and promise.
We collapse together, our chests are heaving, sweat glints on our tangled skin. He presses soft kisses along my shoulder blade, the nape of my neck, my jawline, each one a tether back to reality.
"I've got you," he whispers again, voice husky with love. "Always."
"I know," I pant, burying my face against his collarbone, unwilling to ever let go of the man who makes my world burn with life.
Then I admit something I've never said to anybody.
"I'm scared." My voice barely comes out above a whisper.
"Because if I had to do it again..." I squeeze my eyes shut. "I would."
The confession hangs between us, ugly and raw. "The nightmare wasn't killing him. It was realizing that, if it came down to him or you..." My voice breaks. "I'd make the same choice every single time."
Alessio's arm tightens around me, but I barely feel it.
"All my life, I told myself I wasn't like my father. That no matter what happened, I'd never be capable of what he did." I stare down at my hands. "But that night, I didn't hesitate. I picked up the knife, and I stabbed him."
A tear slips down my cheek. "And the worst part?" I whisper. "I'm not sorry."
Alessio is silent for a long moment. "Beccs—"
I shake my head. "No, listen to me. Because that's what scares me.
" My chest tightens. "Not that I killed someone.
That somewhere inside me, there's a part that was willing to do it.
A part that would do it again." My voice drops to barely a whisper.
"What if that's who I really am? What if I'm more like my father than I ever wanted to believe? "
The confession hangs between us. I stare at my hands.
"I used to think..." I swallow hard. "Daddy didn't wake up one morning and decide to kill Mom.
" Alessio doesn't interrupt. "He loved her.
" I blink away the sting in my eyes. "He loved us.
He taught me how to rebuild an engine. How to ride a motorcycle. How to shoot."
A tear slips free before I can stop it. "He was my hero." The words shatter something inside me. "And then..." My chest tightens. "He murdered my mother. My brothers. He thought Rachel, too. But not me."
With a shuddering breath, I finish. "He didn't want to become that man either."
“At least... I don't think he did. But what if I’m wrong?” My fingers curl into Alessio's shirt. "What if that's how it starts?" The question has haunted me for years. "What if he didn't kill me because he looked at me and knew one day..." The words refuse to come. What if I wake up and I'm him?
Alessio gently hooks a finger beneath my chin until I have no choice but to meet his eyes. "No."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"How?"
His thumb brushes another tear from my cheek.
"Because I've met monsters." I still. "I've worked beside them.
I've hunted them. I've buried them." His forehead rests against mine.
"They don't lie awake wondering if they're becoming monsters.
" His voice is quiet and steady, just the way I need right now.
"They don't cry because they took a life.
They don't spend hours wondering if they crossed a line.
They justify it." He pauses to make sure his point sinks in, before adding another.
"They enjoy it." Another pause. "They stop seeing people.
" His eyes never leave mine. "You still see them.
You still see yourself." He boops my nose.
God, I love that little gesture. "That's the difference. "
I want to believe him so badly. "What if someday I don't?"
"Then I'll remind you." He doesn't even hesitate. "Every day if I have to."
Another tear slips free. He catches it with his thumb. "And if you ever start walking down that road..." His mouth curves into the faintest smile. "I'll drag you back."
A watery laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "You'd really do that?"
"I'd chain you to this bed if I had to."
I snort. "That's probably illegal."
"I own lawyers." Despite everything... I smile. "There she is," he murmurs.
He kisses my forehead before resting his hand over my heart. "Your father lost himself because he stopped fighting." His palm is warm against my chest. "You're terrified of becoming him." His eyes soften. "That fear... is proof you're nothing like him."
His words sink in deeper than I thought possible. I snuggle my head into his broad chest, leeching unapologetically from the strength the strong rhythm of his heart promises and allow myself to hope that maybe everything will be alright after all.