Page 93 of Broken Honor

“You feel… pain?”

I glance up at him, unsure how to answer.

“A little,” I admit.

He walks over, sits beside me and his hand lifts—slow, cautious. I flinch before I can stop myself, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers touch my chin.

And he tilts my face up.

His fingers rest under my chin, as if trying to anchor me to the present. I can feel the faint ridges of his skin—rough and still gentle. His thumb barely brushes the edge of my jaw, and it sends a strange heat through my chest.

My eyes flick up, meeting his. There’s no cruelty in them this time. His hand rests for a second too long before he pulls away. I almost forget to breathe.

He stands abruptly, as if realizing he’s lingered too long too. He walks to his closet and unbuttons his shirt, one button at a time. I watch as the fabric slides from his shoulders and he neatly puts it onto a hanger.

I drop my gaze to the blanket. My fingers twitch slightly in my lap, gripping the edge tighter.

He turns toward me. “This is my room too you know,” he says, voice low. “I want to take a nap.”

I blink up at him. “It’s okay… I can leave.” My voice is barely a whisper as I move to sit up, my side aching with the effort.

“You have stitches,” he says, already lowering himself onto the bed beside me. “I don’t think you should be walking around.” He exhales against the pillow, then mutters, “You didn’t mind being with Enzo. It’s not like I’ll eat you alive.”

I stay still for a moment. Then, slowly, I settle back into the pillows, shifting to face away from him. My fingers fumble quietly with the edge of the blanket, picking at a loose thread. I feel like a feather barely holding to the wind.

When I glance toward him again, he’s no longer lying down. He’s sitting up now on bed and facing me.

My eyes slip across his chest, catching every cut of muscle, every shadow of power etched into his torso. It's beautiful in a way that feels dangerous to look at for too long.

“I know why you ran,” he says finally. “But why did you come back?”

I repeat the question in my mind. Why did I come back?

My lips part slowly. “I couldn’t go anywhere… like that,” I say, eyes darting toward my arms. “Covered in blood. What if Nonna or Bea saw me?” My voice is barely more than a murmur. “What would they think?”

He looks away, jaw twitching. Then he clears his throat. “You saved us. I don’t know how… but you did. Thank you.”

I don’t say anything at first. My heart taps quietly against my ribs.

“You owe me,” I say after a pause.

He blinks. “What?”

“Your brothers…” I lower my gaze. “They owe me ice cream.”

“Oh.” He shifts again, rising slightly on one elbow, then sitting up straighter, just enough to lean closer.

The mattress dips a little under his weight.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice rough and barely above a whisper.

I open my mouth. But nothing comes out.

His eyes catch mine, and I forget how to speak. He eases in just an inch more. Not touching. But close enough. I inch back instinctively, my spine brushing against the headboard.

He asks again—quieter this time, deeper—his voice a low thread of velvet and heat.

“What do you want?”

---