Page 30 of His to Destroy

“I thought you might have been dead,” he adds, voice hoarse. “And I deserved that guilt. I still do.”

“I almost was.”

The silence after that is deafening.

He leans forward. “I’m sorry.”

And for the first time, I think he means it.

Later that night, after Luca has gone to bed and the mansion has settled into its usual quiet hum, I find myself wandering the halls. I don’t mean to. But my feet carry me toward the library again.

He’s there. Of course he is.

Seated near the fireplace, jacket discarded, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looks like something from a memory I never had.

“You can’t sleep either?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not used to this much silence.”

He nods. “It’s loud, isn’t it? The quiet.”

I move to the bookshelf, run my fingers along the spines. “I used to imagine my wedding,” I say suddenly. “A small chapel. Lace. Someone who looked at me like I wasn’t fragile or broken.”

I hear him shift in his seat.

“And now I have a mansion and a man who’s trying.”

He rises slowly. “I don’t expect forgiveness.”

“Good. Because I’m not ready to give it.”

He’s standing close now. Too close.

“But I want to understand you,” I admit.

“I want to be understood.”

We’re inches apart.

His hand reaches up. Pauses near my face.

I don’t stop him.

His fingers graze my jaw. My pulse stutters.

“You drive me insane,” he says, his voice low, rough. “And I can’t stay away.”

I should say something. Anything.

Instead, I let him kiss me.

His mouth finds mine like he’s been holding back for years.

Soft, at first. Just a brush. A question waiting for an answer.

But the second I respond—just a tilt of my head, a slight parting of my lips—he deepens the kiss with quiet hunger. Like he’s starved for something he’s never allowed himself to want. His hand cups the back of my head, cradling it like I’m fragile and precious at once. I feel the heat of his body even before he presses against me. Not aggressive—just present. Surrounding.

His other hand finds the curve of my waist, fingers grazing the fabric of my robe, anchoring me in place. The contact sends a shiver straight through my spine.

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