Page 87 of Hunted to the Altar
He just received it.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Samuel
She still doesn’t knowhow dangerous it is—what it does to me—when she walks into the room and smiles like that. Like she doesn’t carry the weight of every scar I put on her. Like she forgives me in small ways every time her eyes find mine and she doesn’t look away.
We’re back in Italy.
Caputo land. Olive groves and hills that stretch wide like open arms. Dr. Mya said she needed Nina here. Said Nina needed roots somewhere softer than marble and memory. I agreed without hesitation. I’d agree to anything that gave her peace. That gave me more time to prove I’d changed.
And I have. God help me, I have.
The villa we live in now is quieter than the penthouse. Warm. Earthy. No cameras. No locks. The front door stays open most days. Nina leaves her chair by the sunroom in the afternoon when the light spills across the mosaic tile and shereads for hours. She’s carved from smoke and shadow, beauty too bold for daylight and softness no one sees coming. When she forgets to be guarded, when she lets herself melt into the light instead of resisting it, she doesn’t just glow. She blazes. And I live for those moments. When she forgets to be guarded, when she lets herself melt into the light instead of resisting it, she doesn’t just glow. She blazes. And I live for those moments.
I worship them.
I worship her.
I follow her like a shadow that learned how to love. I bring her fruit in the mornings. I massage her calves until she falls asleep. I carry her to the garden when she wants to feel the grass beneath her feet. I braid her hair whenever she wants it done. I read her poetry with my terrible accent until she laughs. I love her like it’s a religion and she’s my church. And I am devout.
Today she’s wearing one of those dresses that swish when she turns, a deep crimson thing that makes her look like the goddess she is. Her hair’s pinned up. Her mouth is soft from wine. Her voice is even softer. Her skin glows from the sun and olive oil and laughter I haven't heard in years.
And she lets me kiss her shoulder when I pass behind her in the kitchen. Lets me brush my lips to the slope of her neck when she leans forward. She pretends she’s indifferent, but her breath hitches every time.
I live for that too.
I live for her sass, her moods, the narrowed eyes when I over-salt her pasta, the way she presses her lips together to keep from laughing when I try to fold laundry and fail.
“Nina,” I murmur. “You’ve been glaring at that bread dough like it insulted your mother.”
She doesn’t look up. “You talk too much, Samuel.”
I grin. My queen in her castle. “You like it when I talk.”
“I like it better when you listen.”
I go quiet immediately. Step back. Press a hand to my chest in mock injury.
“Yes, my love.”
She glances over her shoulder, lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”
I walk to her and drop to my knees. Wrap my arms around her waist and press my face into her stomach, into the folds of that crimson dress, inhaling everything she is.
“Then marry me again,” I whisper. “In this kitchen. With flour in your hair. In front of these tomatoes and this busted rolling pin. Say yes again, Nina. Every day.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re lucky I’m too in love with you to throw this bowl.”
I catch her hand and kiss her knuckles. Then the inside of her wrist. Then her shoulder. Slowly. Reverently. Like I’m memorizing the map of the life I almost lost.
“Say yes,” I murmur again, my voice a prayer.
She doesn’t answer. She turns, and she lets me kiss her mouth instead. But it isn’t just a kiss—it’s permission. Her lips press back with just enough force to make my chest ache, like she’s still holding back but doesn’t want to.
I lift her hand, press it to my cheek. "You don’t owe me anything, Nina. But I’ll earn it anyway."
She doesn’t answer, but when I help her back into her chair, she doesn’t resist. And when I drape the shawl across her shoulders, she lets me.
