Page 39 of His Nephew's Ex
“You could’ve been hurt,stellina.”
“But I wasn’t. And I proved something to myself in the process.” I smile, feeling more like myself than I have in days. “I’m not a damsel in distress. I can handle myself. To a certain degree at least.”
“I know you can.” His voice is soft, intimate, making me hyperaware of how close we’re standing. “That doesn’t mean I you should be taking unnecessary risks.”
“Everything about being involved with you is an unnecessary risk.” The words slip out before I can stop them, honest and raw. “But I’m still here.”
“Yes,” he agrees, his gaze dropping to my lips. “You are.”
Time suspends itself around us, charged with unspoken hunger and dangerous possibilities. I should shatter this tension, remind us both that safety brought us here, not choice. That whatever’s igniting between us is just desperation wearing desire’s mask.
Instead, I find myself moving closer, drawn by the heat radiating from his skin and the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious and dangerous in equal measure.
“Simeone,” I whisper, not sure what I’m asking for.
“Si,stellina?”
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words barely audible in the sudden quiet of the foyer.
His dark eyes search mine. “For what?”
“For defending me. For making it clear that I’m under your protection.” I take a shaky breath, trying to process everything that just happened. “For not letting him intimidate me in your home.”
Something shifts in his expression. He looks surprised that instead of lecturing him about violence or possessiveness, I’m thanking him.
“You don’t need to thank me for that,stellina.” His voice is softer now, intimate. “No one disrespects my woman. Not in my house, not anywhere.”
My woman.The words still send heat pooling low in my belly, still make something primal and satisfied purr in my chest. I should protest the ownership, should remind him that I belong to myself. Instead, I find myself stepping closer.
“Still,” I say quietly, “thank you.”
13
Loriana
The porcelain toilet bowl is cold against my cheek as I heave up what little breakfast I managed to force down this morning. Again. For the third time this week, I’m sprawled on the marble floor of Simeone’s palatial bathroom, my silk nightgown twisted around my legs while my body rebels against everything I try to put in it.
“Stellina?” Simeone’s voice carries through the bathroom door, thick with sleep and concern. “Are you alright?”
“Fine,” I call back, though my voice sounds like I’ve been gargling gravel. “Just something I ate.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but not as bitter as the truth I’ve been avoiding for a while now. Because this isn’t food poisoning or stress or any of the dozen excuses I’ve been making to myself as I’ve watched my body change in ways that should be impossible.
Should be impossible, but aren’t.
I press my forehead against the cool marble, trying to steady my breathing while my mind races through the mathematical impossibility of my situation. One time. We were together one time, that night in my apartment when everything changed between us. One perfect, devastating night that apparently was enough to turn my entire world upside down.
The bathroom door creaks open, and I don’t need to look up to know Simeone is studying me with those piercing dark eyes that see everything I’m trying to hide.
“You’ve been sick every morning for a week,” he says quietly, moving to kneel beside me on the cold floor. “That’s not ‘something you ate,’stellina.”
His hand is warm against my back, rubbing gentle circles that make me want to melt into his touch and confess everything. But how do you tell a man like Simeone Codella—a man whose world is built on violence and control and careful calculation—that one night of passion has created the most beautiful complication imaginable?
“I’m fine,” I repeat, but the words lack conviction even to my own ears.
“Loriana.” There’s something in his voice that makes me lift my head to meet his gaze. “Talk to me.”
I almost give in. Something about the worry creasing his features, the protective way his fingers brush my skin—I want nothing more than to collapse against him and trust him to fix this the way he fixes everything else, with that quiet, absolute confidence.
