I have questions I want to ask. Where was Luca? Who took him? Why?
But I have a feeling I won’t get the answers from Gaspare. At least not tonight.
“You were right,” I whisper. “He was scared.”
Gaspare turns on his side to face me. “You both were.”
I nod, staring at the ceiling.
“I hate this,” I admit. “This feeling. Of being out of control. Of not being able to protect him myself.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “You did protect him. You’ve been protecting him for eight years.”
“But I didn’t today.”
“You trusted me to,” he says. “And I’m glad you did.”
The air changes—shifts subtly between us.
There’s a charge humming beneath the quiet.
I turn toward him.
His face is close. So close.
“You don’t see the way he looks at you when you come through that door,” I say. “Like you are everything.”
He blinks slowly, his voice low. “He gets that from you.”
I smile faintly, but it fades as I reach out and touch the cut on his cheek. “Does it hurt?”
He shrugs. “Only when I’m not looking at you.”
My heart stumbles.
“Was that a line, Colosimo?”
He leans in slightly. “Would you stop me if it was?”
“Probably not.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. “You should sleep.”
“You first.”
He chuckles. “Stubborn.”
“But you married me like this,” I remind him.
He pauses. “Best decision I’ve ever made.”
I don’t know why, but something in that statement, and hearing him say it out loud without hesitation, undoes me.
Gaspare looks at me like I’m something holy and untouchable, like I’ll disappear if he blinks. His eyes are heavy with emotion—soft and intense all at once. He cups my face, fingers trembling slightly, brushing hair from my cheek before leaning in and kissing me—slow and sweet, like a confession.
His lips are warm, coaxing, unhurried. This kiss isn’t about dominance. It’s about rediscovery. His mouth moves over mine, deepening with every slow stroke until the ache between my legs becomes impossible to ignore.
But before he can lower me back onto the bed, I stop him.