Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
The conviction in his voice sends an unexpected shiver through me—not fear, but something else entirely. Something warm and unfamiliar.
"You should rest. Tomorrow will be demanding as well."
He's right, of course. My body screams for recovery, for a hot shower and a soft bed. But something keeps me standing there, reluctant to end this strange day.
"Will you join me for dinner later?" I ask impulsively. "I could cook again. Or we could order something."
He studies me for a moment, as if trying to decipher my motivation. "If you wish."
"I do." The words come out more emphatic than I intended. "I mean, we're in this together, right? We should at least get to know each other beyond security protocols and self-defense techniques."
A hint of amusement touches his expression. "A reasonable point."
"So... dinner? At seven?"
He inclines his head slightly. "I'll look forward to it."
In my suite, I stand under the hot shower until my muscles begin to relax, the ache transforming from sharp to dull. The bathroom fills with steam, fogging the mirrors, creating a cocoon of warmth and privacy.
As I dry off, I catch a glimpse of myself in the clearing mirror—flushed from the heat, hair damp around my face, eyes bright with some emotion I can't quite name. I look... different. Changed, somehow, by these few extraordinary days.
I dress carefully for dinner, selecting a simple but elegant outfit from those provided—soft gray pants and a silk blouse in deep blue. Not formal, but a step up from the workout clothes I've been in all day. A small application of makeup, a touch of perfume. Normal things, feminine things, in a situation that's anything but normal.
Gabriele is already in the kitchen when I arrive, opening a bottle of wine. He's changed as well, into dark slacks and a charcoal sweater that makes his dark eyes seem even more striking by contrast.
"I ordered in," he says, gesturing to an array of containers on the counter. "I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all." The food smells amazing—something Italian, rich with garlic and herbs.
"It's from a place I trust." He pours two glasses of wine, handing one to me. "The chef is an old friend."
"You have friends?" The question slips out before I can stop it, more teasing than I intended.
Instead of taking offense, Gabriele actually smiles—a small, genuine curve of his lips that transforms his face. "A few. Carefully selected."
"I'm honored to be among them," I say lightly, raising my glass in a mock toast.
"Are we friends, Kleah?" The question is serious despite his light tone.
I consider this, taking a sip of wine to buy time. "I'm not sure what we are," I admit finally. "Husband and wife by law. Protector and protected by circumstance. Friends... maybe we're working on it."
He nods, accepting this complex truth without argument. "A fair assessment."
We serve ourselves from the containers—handmade pasta with a rich sauce, crusty bread, a salad of bitter greens and sweet tomatoes. The food is exceptional, the wine perfectly paired. For a few moments, we eat in companionable silence, appreciating the simple pleasure of a good meal.
"Tell me something about yourself," I say eventually. "Something I wouldn't know from researching you."
He considers this, twirling pasta on his fork with elegant precision. "I play the piano."
Of all the things I might have expected, this wasn't one of them. "Well?"
"Well enough."
"Classical?"
"Primarily. Some jazz."
I try to picture it—this dangerous man with deadly hands creating music instead of violence. It's a surprisingly compelling image.
"Will you play for me sometime?" I ask.
Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps, or pleasure at my interest. "If you wish."
"I do." I take another sip of wine, feeling warmth spread through me—from the alcohol, from the food, from his company. "Your turn."
"My turn?"
"To ask me something. Something you wouldn't know from your research."
He studies me over the rim of his wineglass, considering. "What made you choose wax seals as your craft?"
The question is unexpected, thoughtful in a way that catches me off guard. Most people ask about the business aspect, the practicalities. Not the why.
"The permanence," I answer honestly. "The way something so fluid can become so fixed, so defining. The moment of transformation from liquid to solid, capturing an impression that will last."
His eyes hold mine, intent and unreadable. "A tangible mark of identity."
"Yes." He understands in a way few people do. "And there's something intimate about it, too. The act of sealing something—a letter, a package, a promise. It's a deliberate choice to make private things sacred."
The words hang between us, charged with meaning neither of us fully acknowledges. We're talking about wax and seals, yes, but also about boundaries, about trust, about the careful disclosure of what matters.
We finish dinner slowly, trading questions and answers that gradually become more personal, more revealing. I learn that he speaks five languages, that he dislikes the taste of cinnamon, that he once broke his arm jumping from a balcony on a dare when he was twelve.