Page 106 of Untamed

He doesn’t reply. Just breathes. Slowly. Unsteadily.

I stay there. Watching over him as he slips into sleep, his chest finally rising and falling in steady rhythm.

And I promise myself, no matter how many walls he tries to rebuild tomorrow, I won’t let him bleed alone again.

I pull the duvet higher, my fingers brushing the ridges of his bruised abdomen. His skin is warm beneath my touch, marred by shadows of violence and the ghosts of the night he barely made it out of. He breathes through clenched teeth, not fully awake, but not entirely gone either.

My hand lingers.

Fingertips drifting upward, featherlight, over his chest, along the line of his collarbone, until they find the curve of his jaw. I pause,studying the way the bruises fade into his stubble, the twitch of muscle beneath his skin.

He doesn’t move.

So I let my fingers keep going.

They dance across his face, gentle, like I'm touching something fragile. I trace the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the faint graze near his brow, and then, finally, the shape of his mouth. His lips part slightly as my fingertip brushes across them, soft and hesitant.

It feels like holding a secret.

My breath catches.

I start to pull away, guilt rising like a tide, but before I can, his hand shoots up from beneath the covers and closes around mine. Firm. Unyielding.

His eyes open, heavy-lidded and storm-dark, and when he speaks, it’s rough with sleep and something deeper:

“Non smettere di toccarmi... resta con me, bambina.”

Don’t stop touching me... stay with me, bambina.

My heart quivers and I feel my throat tighten.

Because in that moment, half-drugged, half-broken, he finally asks for something.

And it’s me.

So, I lay down beside him on the bed, my fingers lightly brushing through his stubble while I watch him sleep. My eyes grow heavy and fight it, until I can’t and sleep finally takes me.

I stir to the faintest rustle of sheets.

The room is dark, save for the grey-blue light of dawn filtering in through the cracked curtains. My body is warm, cocooned in silence, and for a second, I think I might still be dreaming. Until I feel it, eyes on me.

Slowly, I blink myself awake… and find Ares already watching me.

He’s lying on his good side, head propped slightly on his pillow, his gaze fixed on my face like he’s been studying me for hours. Like he’s memorising every line.

“You sleep like a kitten,” he murmurs, voice rough from sleep, low and husky.

I blink up at him, heart kicking harder in my chest. “And you watch people sleep like a stalker.”

His mouth curves, faint but real. The first real smile I have seen on him, and it does something to my heart. “Only when they sneak into my bed in the middle of the night.”

“You were bleeding out,” I say softly.

“You still shouldn’t have stayed.”

“And yet,” I whisper, “I’m still here.”

There’s a long pause. His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up.

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