Chapter 35 Mara
MARA
The nightmare yanks me awake. Cold sweat, shallow breath, heart thudding like it’s trying to crawl out of my chest.
For a second, I don’t even remember where I am. The dark looks different in this room; it doesn’t belong to me. Nothing here does.
I tell myself I just need water. That’s all.
The hallway is half-lit, shadows stretching long across the stone floor. Every sound feels too loud: my own footsteps, the hum of the refrigerator when I reach the kitchen.
He’s already there.
Nicolo leans against the counter, one hand around a glass, the other braced against the edge of the sink. Vodka. Half-full. No ice. His shirt’s unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. There’s tension in every line of him, like even standing still is work.
His eyes flick up when I step in. “You shouldn’t be wandering around at this hour.”
I grab a glass from the rack and fill it at the tap. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I take a sip, ignoring the way his voice scratches through the quiet. “I was thirsty.”
It’s half-true.
He studies me. Not the kind of look that feels soft. The kind that sees too much.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Just a bad dream.” I drink again. The water’s cold enough to sting.
The silence that follows isn’t comfortable. It’s heavy, charged. He sets the glass down and rubs the back of his neck…and for the first time, he doesn’t look carved out of iron. He looks tired.
My stomach growls. Loud. Traitorous.
His brow lifts, the faintest ghost of a smirk. “When’s the last time you ate?”
I shrug. “Lunch?”
I didn’t eat when we were out for dinner. I was too busy analyzing him, trying to figure out why he took me out to dinner.
His brow tightens as he exhales through his nose like he’s already done arguing. The sound is soft, but final. Then he steps away from the counter and opens the fridge. The door light hits his face in fragments: jaw, cheek, throat.
“Sit,” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“Didn’t ask.” The tone leaves no room for debate.
I hover for a second, stubborn on instinct, then drop onto one of the stools by the island.
The marble’s cold against my forearms. He doesn’t look at me again, just starts pulling things out of the fridge with a kind of quiet efficiency.
Eggs, milk, butter, strawberries. He moves like someone who’s done this a hundred times before, only slower now. More deliberate.
The fridge door shuts with a low thud. The hum of the light fixture fills the silence. I watch him crack the eggs into a bowl one-handed, the sound sharp in the quiet. His forearms flex under the soft light as he beats the mixture, wrist moving in tight, precise circles.
I didn’t know he could cook. I don’t know why that surprises me. Maybe because Nicolo never seems human enough to do something as ordinary as this.
He works without speaking—measured, focused, the same way he handles a gun or a deal.
Control bleeding into everything he touches.
He pours the batter into a pan, and the hiss fills the air, mingling with the faint smell of butter.
The scent hits hard—warm, sweet, safe. The kind of smell that belongs to mornings that don’t end in arguments or blood.
It’s stupid, but it feels like watching a storm try to make peace with itself. The flicker of light from the stove dances across his face, sharp and soft all at once.
He slides a few strawberries across the cutting board, slicing them into thin pieces with the same knife he probably keeps in his jacket during the day. They stain the board red. His fingers move through them like he’s trying not to think about anything at all.
“You always cook for your insomniacs?” I ask just to cut through the quiet.
“Only the ones who look half-starved,” he says without looking up.
He sets the plate in front of me, then reaches for the fork before I can move. “Eat.”
But he doesn’t hand it over. He cuts into the pancake himself—slow, deliberate, like precision’s the only language he knows. The edge of the fork presses through the soft stack, syrup pooling where he drags the bite through it.
I just watch him. “You’re not even going to let me try?”
He doesn’t look up. “You’ll make a mess.”
“I can feed myself, Nicolo.”
His jaw flexes. “Not tonight.”
He lifts the fork, the bite balanced perfectly at the end. The movement’s too smooth, too practiced. I almost want to ask who he’s done this with before, but the thought makes my stomach twist.
“Open your mouth,” he says, tone quiet but absolute.
It shouldn’t sound like a command. It does.
I part my lips without meaning to. He feeds me the bite, eyes on mine the whole time. There’s no teasing in the way he does it, just intent. Control wrapped in silence.
The fork brushes my bottom lip when he pulls it back. I swallow, throat tight. The pancakes are still warm, sweet and soft, the strawberries sharp against the syrup. It’s good—too good—and I hate that I can’t look away from him long enough to taste it properly.
“Better?” His voice comes out rough, lower than before.
I nod once. “Yeah.”
He still doesn’t move. The air between us starts to shift, heavy in a way that makes it hard to breathe. He watches me for another heartbeat, then cuts another piece. The sound of the fork scraping the plate fills the space.
“Again,” he says.
This time, I hesitate. Not because I don’t want it…but because I do. Because something about the way he’s standing there, steady and quiet and unyielding, feels more intimate than anything else we’ve done.
He doesn’t ask twice. The second bite is already at my lips. I open my mouth again. He feeds me slower this time, thumb brushing a stray drop of syrup from the corner of my mouth before it falls. The touch lingers. Warm. Careful. Not careless at all.
That’s when everything shifts: the air, the distance, the fragile balance we’ve been pretending to keep.
It should mean nothing. It doesn’t.
His fingers pause at my mouth, brushing over my bottom lip like he’s considering putting them in. My breath hitches, but I don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t give him any excuse to stop.
His thumb drags across my lip again—slower this time. Rough pad against soft skin. I part my lips before I realize it, and he watches my mouth like he’s thinking about all the ways he could use it.
That’s all it takes. The next second, his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s filthy and fucking hot. His tongue slides between my lips with zero hesitation, deep and dirty, like he wants to taste the inside of my throat. I moan into it—helpless, humiliated by how fast I give in. He drinks it down.
I taste the vodka on his tongue. Salt and heat. Smoke. The smell of him is all over me: spice, sweat, and the faint sting of something burning.
His hand fists in my hair. Tight. Controlling. He tilts my head the way he wants it, mouth slanting harder over mine like he’s trying to fuck the kiss deeper. Like he’s claiming space.
My hands shoot back to the counter just to keep balance. Cold marble against my palms. His body crowding mine, hips pressing into my stomach—and fuck, he’s hard. He groans when I arch into him, low and rough, like he hates how good it feels.
I should stop him. But I don’t.
I suck on his tongue instead, and he growls. His hand tightens in my hair, dragging another moan out of me, and suddenly, I can’t think. Can’t breathe. I want him to pull me onto the counter, rip my shirt open, get his hand between my legs and…
He pulls back. Just like that. His forehead rests against mine, both of us breathing hard. His jaw’s tight. His pupils are blown.
He wants this. Wants me. But he’s already shutting it down.
“It’s late,” he says, voice thick. “Go back to bed.”
“Nicolo—”
“Now.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
He steps away before I can beg, before I can push again, and the space between us goes cold fast. I stand still, then grab my glass, fingers trembling enough to piss me off. My thighs are shaking. My panties are fucking soaked.
I walk out without another word. The hallway feels darker on the way back. My lips are swollen. My skin burns where he touched me. Duchess is still asleep on the chair when I get to my room.
I sit on the bed, pressing my hand to my mouth. I can still taste him. Strawberries. Vodka. Regret.
“I know,” I whisper into the dark.