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)
GABRIELE
My wife sleeps in my arms, trusting and peaceful, her breathing deep and even. I watch her in the dim light, taking in details I rarely allow myself to study so openly—the delicate curve of her cheek, the fan of her lashes against her skin, the soft parting of her lips.
What she gave me tonight was unexpected. Not just physical pleasure, though that was profound in its intensity, its genuineness. But something more valuable, more rare in my experience—the gift of being seen, of having my needs recognized and met without having to articulate them.
I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been holding myself until she offered release. How much tension I'd been carrying, how much restraint I'd been maintaining—not just with her, but with myself.
The relief of letting go, even briefly, was more powerful than I'd anticipated. More necessary than I'd been willing to admit.
When was the last time someone gave to me without expectation of return? When was the last time I allowed myself to receive, to be vulnerable, to surrender even a fraction of control?
I can't remember. Perhaps never.
Kleah shifts in her sleep, nestling closer, her hand coming to rest over my heart as if even unconscious, she seeks connection. I tighten my arm around her, protective and possessive in equal measure.
Mine.
The thought rises unbidden, fierce and primal. Mine to protect, mine to cherish, mine to defend against whatever comes.
Chapter Eight
KLEAH
RAIN POUNDS AGAINST the windows, turning the world beyond into a blur of gray and green. The storm hit suddenly, clouds gathering on the horizon and racing toward shore with unexpected speed, bringing wind and water in violent gusts.
I watch from the library window, mesmerized by nature's fury. There's something cleansing about storms, something primal and honest in their unrestrained power.
It's been three days since Gabriele left. And ever since, I've worn the necklace he's given me, and the key that acts like its pendant resting heavily against my skin. I find its weight reassuring. It makes me feel my husband is with me wherever I go.
The house phone rings, startling me from my thoughts. "Mrs. Bronzetti, it's Toole."
His tone is deeply respectful. Everyone of his staff talks to me this way, actually, and it's still something I struggle to get used to.
"We've had reports of potential flooding on the lower access road. Mr. Bronzetti asked me to inform you he may be delayed returning from town."
Unease squeezes my chest. "Is he alright?"
"There's nothing to worry about," Toole assures me quickly. "Mr. Bronzetti is just taking the longer route back as a precaution."
I thank him and hang up, relieved but unsettled. I've grown used to my husband's presence, to the subtle ways he fills a space without seeming to try. The careful attention he brings to every task, the quiet competence that makes even mundane activities feel purposeful.
The shift in our relationship since that night in the Roman bath has been subtle but undeniable. I find myself missing Gabriele when he's gone, even briefly. Seeking his company not from fear or obligation, but from genuine desire to be near him, to share thoughts and silence equally.
It's unexpected, this attachment. Unplanned. Perhaps unwise, given the circumstances.
But undeniably real.
Lightning flashes, followed almost immediately by thunder that shakes the windows. The storm is directly overhead now, intensifying rather than passing. I move away from the window, restless energy driving me to explore parts of the house I haven't fully investigated.
Beyond the kitchen, past a rarely used dining room, I discover a door I haven't noticed before. It's unlocked, opening to reveal a short passage that ends at another door—this one glass, leading to what appears to be a greenhouse attached to the side of the house.
Curious, I continue forward, pushing through the glass door into a space that takes my breath away.
The greenhouse is larger than it appeared from outside, a cathedral of glass and greenery. Rain drums against the roof, creating a cocoon of sound that feels both wild and sheltering. Plants of all varieties fill the space—exotic flowers, practical herbs, climbing vines that reach toward the ceiling.
It's magical—a hidden garden protected from the storm yet still part of it, still connected to the elemental forces raging outside.
I wander through, fingertips brushing leaves and petals, inhaling scents both familiar and strange. The temperature is warmer here, the air humid and rich with life. At the far end, a small seating area has been arranged—cushioned benches surrounding a low table, as if designed for peaceful contemplation amid the greenery.
I settle on one of the benches, drawing my knees up to my chest, watching rain stream down the glass walls and ceiling. The storm creates a private world in here, a bubble of tranquility within chaos.
"I should have shown you this place sooner."
The voice startles me, though I recognize it immediately.
Gabriele!
My husband stands in the doorway, rain still glistening in his dark hair, his clothes damp at the shoulders.