Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
The door shuts softly behind him.
I lie back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. My body is still weak, and my heart is doing something reckless and stupid and entirely on its own.
Is this how we could have been if the world hadn’t stepped in and tore us apart?
54
Lorenzo
I’ve tried to keep away. But shit, it’s much fucking harder than I anticipated.
It’s been three days since I slept in her room for the first time. Yep, I’ve camped out there every night since.
I’m fucking pathetic.
But in my defense . . . there is no defense. I just can’t keep away.
Even now, as I’m halfway down the hall, I can hear her, a soft, muffled gasp filtering past the closed door to her room.
Then another.
I take a deep breath.
Don’t check on her.
She’s okay.
Another sound. This time, it sounds like a cough.
Shit.
My hand stops on the banister, fingers tightening.
She’s been sick for days, but she no longer has a fever, so she’s recovering.
Yet something about the sound of her in pain has me wanting to turn around and go to her.
I should keep walking, but my feet move before I can stop them. I’m at her bedroom door in three strides, and I’m pushing it open before I can stop myself.
Her room is dim, but I can still see her. She’s twisted in the sheets, hair fanned across the pillow. Her face is pinched with lips parted.
“No,” she whispers.
The word isn’t loud, but my jaw still tightens.
I step closer.
Her body jerks again, a tremor running through her body. “I didn’t—” she breathes, voice cracking. “I didn’t . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .”
My throat goes tight. She might not say it, but deep in my gut, I know exactly who she’s apologizing to.
And that someone is me.
I stop at the edge of her bed, staring down at her.
She chokes on a breath. “Please—”
I don’t think. I just sit on the edge of the mattress and gently grab her wrist.
“Victoria. Wake up.”
Her eyes snap open, and for a split second, it’s like she doesn’t see me.
She looks like she did when she was seventeen, and her father caught her sneaking out.
Like the world is about to hurt her, and she knows it.
Then her gaze locks onto mine, and she freezes.
“Lorenzo,” she whispers.
I let my hand stay on her wrist.
“You’re having a nightmare.”
Her eyes search my face. The expression on her face looks like she expects me to vanish.
“I—” Her voice breaks. “I thought—”
“I know.” My mouth twists. “You always think too much.”
She makes a sound that might be a laugh. Her hand tightens around mine suddenly, fingers cold. And that’s when I realize . . . she’s reaching for me.
My chest aches in a way I don’t have a name for.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I grit out.
Her eyes flash. “Like what?”
“Like you’re relieved I’m here.” The words come out sharper than I mean.
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. She just stares at me. Her gaze is raw and confused.
Her mouth trembles again, and her gaze drops to our hands like it’s the first time she’s realizing she’s holding me. She’s going to let go. She doesn’t.
Instead, her fingers slide up, touching my knuckles. My freshly scarred knuckles.
She notices.
Of course, she notices.
“There’s more.” Her brows pinch. “What happened to your hand?”
I pull away automatically. “Nothing.”
She follows the motion, sitting up farther, hair falling over her shoulder. She looks smaller now, wrapped in white sheets, face still flushed.
“You have new scars?”
“It’s fine.” I flex my hand, as if proving it’s nothing.
Her lips twitch faintly, and tears fill her eyes. And they are real.
Her jaw tightens. Then a tear slips down her cheek, and she turns her face away from me like she’s ashamed of her feelings.
Something inside me snaps. Not in a violent way. In the other way.
The way I hate.
I reach out and cup her jaw, forcing her face back toward mine.
Her breath catches, and her eyes flare. “Don’t.”
“Don’t cry,” I correct softly, thumb brushing the tear off her skin with a slow stroke. “Not for me.”
A small laugh escapes her, but her chin still trembles.
She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide what to do.
Then she reaches up, and her fingers slide into my hair.
I go still. “Victoria,” I warn.
Her hand trembles in my hair. “I can’t—” she whispers, voice breaking. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Hate you.” The words sound pained, and I feel the pang in my own chest. “I don’t—I don’t hate—”
“Stop.” My voice comes out harsh, and I regret the tone immediately when she flinches.
I lean in closer, lowering my voice, forcing control back into my bones. “Stop. You don’t have to speak. Just breathe.”
She leans forward, lips parting. I expect her to say something, but she doesn’t. Instead, her lips find mine. She kisses me.