Page 169 of Salvatore

I’m unfamiliar with this version of him—the one that isn’t flirtatious and doesn’t offer compliments like weapons. He’s distant, closed, and it hurts.

“I can’t sleep.” I shrug.

“And you thought my company might act as a sedative?”

“You’ve been known to be dull…” I aim for lightheartedness but I don’t stick the landing. Things between us are off. He probably wants me gone, and I’ve spent all day missing the signs. “I’m sorry I was the catalyst for the fight with your siblings. And for what happened with Lorenzo, too. I can’t imagine what you’ve?—”

“Both were a long time coming,” he cuts me off, the swipe of his finger across his cell screen sharper now.

“Even so, that doesn’t make it any easier to?—”

“This isn’t something I want to discuss, Ivy.”

The chastisement stings. Burns.

A whisper of a sardonic chuckle escapes me. “Really? A man who doesn’t want to chat about feelings? No way.”

Finally his gaze meets mine, dark, harsh, and full of pain he’s clearly trying to smother.

A fissure forms in my chest, the slight crack deepening into a crevice as we maintain eye contact.

“You should get back to bed. I’m sure Flores will come looking for you soon enough.” He lowers his attention back to his cell, the swipe, swipe, swipe of his finger turning the crevice into a gorge.

I stand tall before him, unwavering in the face of his indifference, but inside, I’m raw, carved open. “You want me gone…”

His nostrils flare. “No. I want you to go to bed.”

I can’t. Not with him acting like I’ve slept with his brother while carrying his child.

Whatever it is, I want to fix it. Ineedto. I’m just not sure how.

I can’t offer the things he so willingly gives to me because before him I never knew the comfort of protection—never understood trust or what it means to rely on someone when danger is near.

I lack the necessary experience to reciprocate. I don’t have the unshakable confidence needed to stare death in the face without flinching.

All I can give is the one thing I’ve always been confident in offering men. Something that was once empty and self-serving but now carries a weight of sincerity and connection.

“I don’t want to go back to my room.” I inch forward, stopping when my knees brush the wooden bedframe, his body within reach, his presence stifling.

I wish I could artfully articulate how I feel. If only childhood trauma hadn’t made me a sarcasm-reliant, sass-dependent woman stripped of the ability to be vulnerable. I’m foreign to the romantic ways of men and women—the quiet words and softly spoken confessions.

Instead, I drag in a strengthening breath as I cautiously climb onto the bed, my knees against the mattress, my hands upon his waist while I maneuver my skewered body to straddle his thighs.

He watches without a word. Without movement. Without a single sign that he’s even affected. I’d believe it, too, if it weren’t for the bulge straining against his pants zipper.

“I missed you today.” My confession is ignored, his steely attention returning to his cell while he continues to swipe. “You said you’d come check on me.” I slide my hands over his chest, my fingers grazing the top button of his shirt.

“I did.” His gaze lifts, cold and detached, as I release the first button. “You were asleep.”

“You should’ve woken me.” I dare to trail my touch downward, catching the second button.

“There was no need. We had nothing to discuss.” The words hang heavy between us. “What is this, Ivy? The makings of a pity fuck?”

I grin. “Do you get any other kind?”

His eyes harden, the color so dark and deep I want to drown in them. “You’re injured. Now’s not the time.”

“I’m resourceful.” I take one last risk, sliding my fingers lower, gripping his belt. “I’ll figure something out.”

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