Chapter 10
ROSALINA
Six in the morning and I am still awake.
Not awake like I woke up early. Awake like I never actually fell asleep in the first place, despite spending the last four hours staring at the ceiling of my doorless bedroom and doing everything in my power to avoid thinking about my kiss with Gabriel.
But it’s hard when I can still feel his callous hands on me. Gabriel's hands.The soft plush of his mouth against mine. How easy it was to breathe each other in as we were caught up in the moment.
But mostly, I'm trying not to think about the dinner the night before.
About Dante's hand on my ass. About the sharp sting that somehow translated into something warmer and more dangerous low in my stomach.
About the way I gasped, the way Luca smirked and Gabriel watched with those knowing eyes that see entirely too much.
I hate that I can still feel the phantom heat of Dante's palm, the throb that reminds me every time I shift in bed of exactly what happened. Of the humiliation. Of the way my body betrayed me by responding to something that should have been purely degrading.
I hate that part of me—a part I am absolutely not examining too closely—liked it.
No. Not liked. That's the wrong word. My body reacted. That's all. Just biological response to stimulus. Nothing more.
Except I know that's a lie, and lying to myself at six in the morning while staring at a ceiling I have memorized down to the individual cracks in the plaster feels particularly pathetic.
I give up on sleep entirely, throwing back the covers and padding barefoot across the room. No door means no privacy, which means I cannot even have the dignity of a private crisis without worrying that one of them might walk past and see me having a breakdown in my pajamas.
The house is quiet this early—unnaturally quiet after a week of constant noise and guards and the general chaos of living in what is essentially mafia headquarters.
My feet make soft sounds against the hardwood as I make my way downstairs, drawn by the promise of coffee and maybe some space to think without three men watching my every move.
The kitchen is empty when I get there, thank God. I find the coffee maker—Italian and probably worth more than a car—and spend a solid five minutes trying to figure out how to operate it before finally giving up and just boiling water for instant coffee instead.
I am standing at the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil and trying very hard not to think about the offer Gabriel made at dinner the other night, when I hear footsteps behind me.
Heavy. Deliberate. Definitely male.
I turn around, and my brain short-circuits for approximately three full seconds.
Gabriel stands in the doorway wearing nothing but black athletic shorts and running shoes, his chest and abs on full display like this is a completely normal way to encounter someone in a kitchen at six in the morning.
His skin is darker than I expected, smooth except for the few scars I can see scattered across his ribs, his shoulders.
There is a tattoo over his heart—something in Latin I cannot quite read from here—and another along his ribs that disappears into the waistband of his shorts.
He looks like he was carved out of marble by someone with very specific fantasies about the male form.
I hate that I notice. Hate that my eyes track the lines of muscle definition, the V that points down toward—
No. Absolutely not. Not doing that. Especially after yesterday morning, when Gabriel kissed me after catching me trying to escape again.
I snap my gaze back up to his face, which is somehow worse because he is smiling at me like he knows exactly where I was looking and is enjoying it immensely.
"Morning, Bella," he says, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," I manage, turning back to the kettle like it requires my full attention.
"Can't sleep?"
"Obviously."
I hear him move closer, feel the air shift as he comes to stand next to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. He smells like soap and something woodsy that makes me want to lean in closer, which is absolutely not happening.
"There's a remedy for that," he says, and his voice drops into something lower, darker, laced with innuendo so obvious even I cannot pretend to miss it.
I turn to glare at him. "I'm not fucking you."
The words come out sharper than I intended, defensive and harsh, and I watch his expression shift from amused to something that looks almost offended.
"Jesus, Rosalina," he says, taking a step back and holding up his hands like I just accused him of murder. "I was going to suggest a run."
Oh.
Oh God.
Heat floods my face so fast I actually feel dizzy. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." He shakes his head, but there is a smile tugging at his mouth now, amusement replacing the offense. "Not everything is a proposition, Bella. Sometimes a run is just a run."
"Right. Obviously. I knew that."
"Sure you did." His smile widens into something wicked. "But good to know where your mind went immediately. Very telling."
"Shut up," I mutter, turning back to the kettle which is now whistling aggressively.
"So," he says, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his bare chest in a way that should be illegal. "You want to come?"
"On a run," I clarify, just to be absolutely sure we are talking about the same thing.
"Yes, Rosalina. On a run. In Central Park. With our clothes on. Very innocent and non-sexual."
I should say no. I should stay here, drink my terrible instant coffee, and maintain whatever shred of dignity I have left after that night.
But the idea of getting out of this house—of moving, of running, of feeling my muscles work and my lungs burn with something other than rage and confusion—is too tempting to resist.
"Fine," I say. "Give me five minutes."
"I'll wait here."
I abandon the kettle and sprint back upstairs, taking them two at a time.
My room—my doorless room—is still scattered with half-unpacked boxes from the move I did not consent to, clothes and books and personal items I have been too angry to properly organize.
I dig through the nearest box until I find a sports bra and black leggings that actually fit, then change so fast I almost fall over twice.
No mirror to check myself, which is probably for the best. I do not need to see what a week of captivity and poor sleep has done to my appearance.
I am back downstairs in four minutes, slightly out of breath, and Gabriel looks me over with an expression I cannot quite read.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready."
The morning air hits me like a shock to the system the moment we step outside—cold and crisp and carrying the smell of the city waking up.
It is barely light out, the sun just starting to paint the sky in shades of pink and orange, and for a moment I just stand there breathing it in, feeling something in my chest loosen for the first time in days.
"Come on," Gabriel says, already stretching. "Try to keep up."
"Try to keep up?" I repeat, offended. "I was trained by the Irish mafia. I can run circles around you."
"Prove it."
We start at a jog, making our way toward Central Park.
The streets are mostly empty this early, just a few people walking dogs and delivery trucks making their rounds.
Gabriel sets a pace that is challenging but not impossible, and I fall into rhythm beside him, letting my body remember what it feels like to move with purpose instead of pacing the same ten feet of the bedroom over and over.
By the time we hit the park, my muscles are warm and my breathing has evened out into something steady. The park is beautiful this early—quiet except for birds and the occasional other runner, the trees still holding onto their leaves despite the chill in the air.
"So," Gabriel says after we have been running for maybe ten minutes, not even slightly winded. "You thought I was propositioning you."
"I said I'm sorry," I lie, because I definitely did not say that.
"No you didn't."
"Well I'm thinking it very loudly."
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Your mind went straight to sex. Interesting."
"It did not," I protest, even though we both know I am lying.
"It did. You looked at me, I suggested a remedy for insomnia, and your brain immediately went to—"
"Can we not analyze my thought process at six in the morning?"
"Why? Embarrassed?"
"No."
"Liar."
I increase my pace slightly, pulling ahead of him just to prove I can. He matches me easily, and we run in silence for another few minutes before he speaks again.
"You know," he says, his voice slightly breathless now—finally—"the offer still stands."
"What offer?"
"All of us. Sharing you." He glances over at me. "You said you wanted just Dante, but I don't think you meant it."
My foot catches on nothing and I stumble slightly. Gabriel's hand shoots out to steady me, grip firm on my elbow, and I jerk away like his touch burned.
"I meant it," I say.
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"Then why can't you look at me when you say it?"
I force myself to turn and meet his eyes. "I meant it."
He studies my face for a long moment, and I watch something shift in his expression—amusement bleeding into something darker, more intent. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You are." He slows to a stop, and I stop too because apparently my body has decided to betray me completely today. "You've been thinking about it. Haven't you?"
"No."
"Liar." He takes a step closer, and I take a step back, my spine hitting a tree. "You've been thinking about what it would be like. All three of us. Taking turns with you. Making you feel things you've never felt before."
My breathing picks up, and it has nothing to do with the run. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" Another step closer, until he is right in front of me, one hand braced against the tree beside my head. "Then why is your pulse racing?"
"Because I was running."
"We stopped running thirty seconds ago."
Damn him.