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)
I glare at him. “I’m trying not to picture it.”
He leans closer a fraction, eyes narrowing. “Then stop asking questions you don’t want me to answer.”
“Fine. I won’t,” I say before clamping my mouth shut.
“One of them caught my arm,” he says. “Blade.”
My stomach turns.
Lorenzo lifts his scarred forearm slightly, fingers tracing the jagged line. “Went deep,” he mumbles. “I remember thinking . . . that’s a lot of blood. They stabbed me a few more times before leaving me to bleed out and die.”
My breath catches, and I hate that my eyes sting.
Lorenzo notices immediately. His gaze flicks up, sharp.
“Don’t,” he warns, voice quiet. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I whisper, my voice rough.
“Like I’m human,” he replies, the words bitter.
I swallow hard. “You are.”
Lorenzo’s laugh is low and unpleasant. “That’s generous.”
I lean forward slightly, hands gripping each other tighter. “How did you survive?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t feel like dying.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s exactly it.” He cuts in. “I dragged myself out. Used my belt for a tourniquet. Bad knot. Worse pain. But it did the deed.”
I stare at him, horrified.
“And then,” he adds, lips curling, “since I had fucked up by going without Matteo and backup, I called Rafe.”
My brows lift. “And?”
Lorenzo’s eyes gleam with dark amusement. “He answered like I was interrupting his beauty sleep.”
Despite myself, a laugh escapes. “No way.”
Lorenzo’s mouth lifts, the closest thing to real humor I’ve seen from him since the wedding. “He thought I was joking. Told me to ‘stop being dramatic.’”
“That sounds like him.”
“He showed up, but he wasn’t alone. He brought Matteo,” Lorenzo continues, voice rougher now. “Both of them took one look at me and went white, which was satisfying.
“I remember both of them so clearly despite being delusional from blood loss,” Lorenzo says, quieter. “Rafe was trying to hold pressure. Matteo kept telling me not to close my eyes.”
My chest aches. “And then?”
“I lived, obviously. But I told him if I died, he owed me a drink.”
I blink. “That’s what you said?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “I was trying to motivate him.”
“That’s not motivation.”
“It worked,” he replies.
Silence settles between us. I stare at the scar again, then at his bruised knuckles, then at his face. Something shifts in me.
Understanding.
Because monsters aren’t born. They’re made.
I swallow hard. “Does it hurt?”
His gaze flicks up, surprised.
“Still,” I clarify, gesturing helplessly at his scar. “Does it still hurt?”
“Sometimes,” he admits, the word reluctant. “When it rains. When it’s cold. When I’m tired.”
My throat tightens. “So basically always.”
His mouth curves faintly. “Basically.”
I stare at him, and my voice comes out before I can stop it. “Why show me?”
Lorenzo’s eyes sharpen, and he looks at me like I just asked him to confess to a crime he didn’t commit.
Then he shrugs. It’s small, almost careless. “You asked. And you were looking at me like you wanted to know.”
My cheeks heat. “I was looking because I was shocked.”
“Sure,” he replies, gaze dropping to my mouth briefly, then back to my eyes. “Shocked.”
My pulse stutters, furious at my body for responding.
I force my tone back into something safer. “You keep scars like trophies.”
Lorenzo’s lips twitch. “They’re reminders.”
“Of what?” I challenge.
His eyes go cold. “That I don’t get to be naive.”
The words hit harder than they should. Because I remember him as naive. I remember him laughing in the boathouse like the world hadn’t taught him cruelty yet.
And now here he is, older, sharper, full of violence, carrying wounds that will haunt him for life.
I take a slow breath. “I didn’t know.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t know anything,” I whisper, the sentence heavy with everything I can’t say.
Lorenzo’s jaw flexes. “You didn’t know because you didn’t stay.”
Pain flashes in his eyes, too quick to be anything but real.
I flinch, and he sees it. Of course he does.
His hand lifts, fingers reaching toward my face, then stops. For a second, he just hovers there, knuckles inches from my cheek.
Then, slowly, his hand moves and brushes a loose strand of hair back behind my ear.
His touch is careful, like he’s handling something easily breakable.
Lorenzo’s thumb grazes my cheekbone once, a ghost of contact, and his eyes hold mine as my breath catches.
“Stop looking at me like I’m salvageable.”
I swallow hard. “Stop acting like you’re not.”
“You think you can fix me?”
“I think you’re more than this,” I whisper, then immediately want to take it back because it makes me feel vulnerable.
Lorenzo’s gaze drops to my lips again, and the air changes.
It reminds me of the moment right before a storm breaks. My pulse starts racing, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or something worse.
Lorenzo leans in a fraction, and my whole body braces. A weird feeling of electricity rushes through my body, and that terrifies me more than anything.
His breath warms my mouth. “Careful.”
I don’t move. I can’t. I’m frozen in place, and the room feels too small for both of us.