Page 472 of Rosetti Family New York
"You seem to be under the impression that what just happened changes our arrangement." His voice returns to that detachment I recognize from the hospital, but there's something darker underneath it now. Something possessive. "It doesn't."
I blink up at him, my post-orgasmic haze rapidly clearing. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I fuck you when I want to fuck you. How I want to fuck you." He traces one finger along the curve of my jaw, the touch deceptively gentle. "But that doesn't make you my girlfriend, princess. That makes you mine."
The distinction stings. "Van…"
"You wanted to know what these hands could do to you," he continues, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "Now you know. But don't mistake good sex for something it's not."
I should be angry. Should push his hand away and storm out. But lying here naked in his bed, surrounded by his scent and the lingering ache between my thighs, all I can think about is the way he said "mine" like he was claiming territory.
"And what if I want more than that?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Something dangerous flickers in his expression. "Then you're going to learn the difference between what you want and what you get." He leans down, his mouth brushing against my ear. "Sweet dreams, Carmela. Try not to think too hard about what other rules we'll be establishing."
He stands and heads toward the door, leaving me naked and reeling in his bed.
"Where are you going?" I call after him.
He pauses in the doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the hall light. "To check the locks. To make sure you're safe." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Because that's what I do now. I keep what's mine protected."
The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I'm left alone in the darkness, my heart racing and my body already aching for his touch again. I should be horrified by his casual dominance, by the way he's rewritten the rules without asking.
Instead, I find myself pressing my thighs together, already wet again from the promise in his voice. Whatever game we're playing now, the stakes just got infinitely higher, and I have no idea if I'm the player or the prize.
9 - Van
The nightmare rips me awake at 0400 hours like it has every morning for three years. Same sequence every time—rope burns flaring around my wrists while soldiers scream for help I can't give. The metallic taste of fear coats my tongue as I surface from sleep, cold sweat making the sheets cling to my skin.
The other side of the bed is empty, sheets still warm from where Carmela slept before slipping away to her own room. After what happened between us last night—the rules I laid out, the way I left her alone afterward—I wasn't sure she'd even stay in the apartment. But her scent lingers on the pillow, vanilla and something floral that cuts through trauma responses better than any prescription.
0402 hours. The digital clock's green numbers mock my inability to sleep past the trauma schedule my brain has locked into since discharge three years ago.
I slip from bed, the hardwood cold under bare feet as I begin the ritual that keeps me functional—checking locks, testing windows, scanning for threats that exist more in memory than reality.
Front door: three locks, all secure. Test the handle twice more because the first check never feels sufficient.
Kitchen window: latched tight, blinds angled so no one can see in without me noticing movement outside.
Living room: curtains drawn, security system armed, the leather chair positioned so I can see all entry points.
The apartment transforms into a tactical position rather than a home during these early morning sweeps. Every shadow gets evaluated, every sound catalogued and dismissed. Hypervigilance is exhausting, but it's kept me alive through worse than Chicago's south side politics.
My hands shake slightly as I run them under cold water. Breathing exercises don't touch trauma this deep. Neither do the medications I refused after discharge. Only control helps—checking what can be secured, managing what can be predicted, staying three steps ahead of every possible threat.
Including the ones who might come for the woman somewhere in my apartment.
I measure cream to the exact shade Carmela likes, two sugars dissolving as I stir. Blue ceramic mug that fits her small hands perfectly—I bought it three days after she moved in, telling myself it was practical. Nothing practical about memorizing how someone takes their coffee like a patient chart.
The ritual steadies my hands better than any medication. Control what I can when everything else feels chaotic. Making her coffee exactly right means something—domestic terror that hits harder than combat flashbacks because this feels too much like the future I never dared want.
Black coffee since I enlisted at eighteen, same every morning. Military precision applied to caffeine intake, fuel for functionrather than pleasure. No sugar because sweetness was luxury I couldn't afford to crave. No cream because complications made everything harder to maintain.
Now I'm calibrating sweetness levels for a twenty-three-year-old runaway who changed my entire morning routine without trying.
The ceramic mug warms under my palms as I test the temperature—hot enough to comfort, cool enough she won't burn her tongue. I've watched her drink coffee for two weeks now, cataloguing every preference. The way she wraps both hands around the cup for warmth. How she closes her eyes on the first sip when I get the ratio exactly right. The small sound of satisfaction that makes something clench in my chest every time.
This woman who might stay, who might learn to trust me again after how I handled last night.
