Page 134 of I'm sorry, Princess
“I love you.” The words escape before I can stop them, small but sharp, cutting through the haze between us.
He stills.
His gaze those stormy, ice-blue eyes locks on mine with something I can’t name. He brushes a thumb along my cheekbone, so gentle it nearly undoes me.
We’re both bare, skin to skin, and yet I’ve never felt more exposed. He gathers me in his arms like I’m something fragile, something precious, and carries me to the bathroom without a word. The shower hisses to life, steam curling around us as he steps under the spray with me still in his arms.
He lowers me with care, letting the water cascade over us, washing away the heat but not the tension. He stays behind me, arms wrapped around my waist, lips brushing my damp shoulder.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he whispers quiet, almost broken.
And I freeze. The breath catches in my throat, and suddenly, the air feels too thick, too heavy. I don’t know if I want to cry because he doesn’t believe me… or because I meant every word, with every broken, beating piece of me, and that truth terrifies me more than anything ever has.
Chapter Thirty-six
Lorenzo
Ilove you.
That’s what she said. Three simple words that hit me like a goddamn bullet to the chest, and I haven’t been able to breathe right since. She whispered them, eyes wide and open like she meant them. Like they weren’t just something people say after sex when their defenses are down and their guard is off. But still… how could she have meant them?
Maybe it was the high. Maybe it was just the aftermath of being fucked so good she lost track of her thoughts. Maybe she didn’t mean it at all. Maybe she did. And if she did…
Fuck.
I haven’t slept right in days, because those three words keep playing on a loop in my head. Over and over, like some fucked-up mantra I didn’t ask for but can’t silence.
Does she love me?
Do I love her?
I don’t know what love is supposed to feel like. But I know this, I can’t fucking breathe without her.
I want her under my skin. I want her in my bed, in my arms, in my fucking bloodstream. I want to know where she is every second of the day. I want to be the one who makes her laugh, the one who ruins her for every other man. I want her to crave me, just like I crave her.
Is that love? Or is it something darker?
I don’t know. But I know I’d burn the world to keep her. I know I’d kill anyone who touches her. I know the way her voice calms whatever chaos is in me. And I know I’ve tried like hell to ignore what I feel, and failed.
Every time she cries my name, every time she looks at me like I’m something good… it unravels me.
Because I know I’m not good. I never have been.
She doesn’t know me, not really. She hasn’t seen the worst of me. She doesn’t know the lengths I’ve gone to for control, for silence inside my own head. She doesn’t know what it means to be loved by someone like me.
She thinks she does. But she doesn’t.
And still... she said it. Like she meant it.
And now I’m sitting in this goddamn car at the airport, waiting to take her on a trip she thinks is just a getaway. Florence, a city she’s always wanted to see. I told her I’d handle everything. I told her not to pack. But she insisted. Because she’s stubborn. Because she doesn’t let me run everything, yet.
And I guess she’s still mad. Because I didn’t say it back. I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t feel it. But because what I feel? It’s not simple. It’s not clean. It’s a goddamn obsession. A hunger. A need that borders on violent. I want her too much. And that… freaks the shit out of me. Because I don’t know if I can love her the way she deserves. Or if I’ll just end up destroying her.
She’s twenty minutes late.
The engine of my Lambo hums softly under my fingers, but my blood’s running hotter than the metal I’m gripping. My phone buzzes, Dante again. Third time. He’s been hounding me for an explanation ever since the Luciano incident. What does he expect me to say? That I’m sorry? That I didn’t mean to align myself with the Bratva? There’s no apology coming. Not for telling the truth.
I ignore his call.
