Sunlight. I think I feel sunlight on my skin, and that’s what finally convinces me to pry open my eyes. Wherever I am, I feel as if I’mcravingsunlight, as if I’m starved for it. And when I finally do manage to get them open, I’m shocked at what I see.
I’m in a bed–aroomthat I’ve never seen before. It reminds me of Caterina’s family home, the Rossi mansion that she took me to once. It still belongs to her, even though she lives with Viktor now, being cared for by a skeleton staff to keep it pristine for her future children to inherit. Whereas her home with Viktor is decorated to her taste, in warm earthy tones and soft textiles that make it feel homier than a Bratvapakhan’shome should. The Rossi mansion felt like something from the old world, stately and forbidding in its elegance and grandeur.
That’s what this room makes me think of. The floor is gleaming reddish-brown hardwood, overlaid with a thick antique rug in a red and gold and cream woven pattern. The curtains are a heavy, deep red fabric, pulled back along with the gauzy underlayer to let the sun in. The bed is a mahogany four-poster, tall and heavy, matching the other furniture in the room–all of it heavy wood with brass handles, from the wardrobe to the dresser and the side tables. There’s a stone fireplace at the far end of the room, with another thick rug in front of it, and a deep red velvet wing chair.
Beyond the window to my left is the most beautiful view I’ve ever seen–acres upon acres of rolling estate land dotted with vineyards and what looks like a stable further off in the distance. But it doesn’t compare with what I see next to me that makes my heart leap in my chest.
Max is sleeping beside me, his long dark lashes against his high cheekbones, his face calm and composed in sleep, his dark hair tousled. He’s still in his usual black chinos and button-down clothes, both rumpled as if he hasn’t bothered to change in some time. I stare at him, a flicker of hope pushing away all my other worries and fears as I remember where I am and why I’m here.
We’re in Italy, at Max’s family home. His estate. And the fact that he’s asleep next to me makes me wonder if he’s rethought everything about that last conversation we had on the plane before we landed in Italy.
You can’t love me, Sasha. I’m not right for you, and I never will be.
I’m a failed brother. A failed priest. A failed man.
I’ve broken every vow except for one.
It’ll be all I can do not to be convinced to break the last.
Looking down at him, I can’t help wondering if he’s changed his mind. What other reason could there be for him sleeping next to me?
I’m hesitant to wake him. I don’t want him to leave. I want to stay like this, nestled in the blankets next to him, feeling his warmth, smelling the citrus-and-salt scent of his skin. But I reach out slowly, running my fingers through the loose waves of his dark hair, feeling it run silkily through my fingers. They drift down over his sharp jaw, his stubble thicker than he usually lets it get.
Has he just been here the entire time I’ve been sick?Guilt grips me at the thought that he might have stayed by my bedside, although I’m not entirely sure why. Whatever happened to me wasn’t intentional on my part–but I don’t want to be a burden to him. I don’t want him to see me that way.
I slowly trace his jawline, resisting the urge to brush my fingers over his full lower lip. He’s so incredibly handsome, even with his face softened in sleep like this–maybe even more so. My chest aches as I look down at him, wishing for this every day.
We could wake up like this every morning.My mind runs away with the idea so quickly that it startles me as I reach up to run my fingers through his hair again. I can picture him opening his eyes to look up at me sleepily, smiling the same way I would at the sight of his face first thing in the morning, snuggling closer together under warm blankets as we struggle with the idea of facing the day instead of hiding in bed together.
It’s easy to imagine all of it–too easy. Morning sex, with Max spooned behind me, already hard when we wake up, slipping into me from behind or rolling me onto my back to slide between my legs. Just the thought of it sends a tingling shiver through me, my thighs squeezing together as the momentary spike of pleasure from the idea chases away my aches and pains for a second.
Breakfast in bed. Watching movies together. Making love in front of the fireplace.A hundred romantic ideas run through my mind as I trail my fingers through his hair, down to the soft bits at the nape of his neck, my heart racing in my chest at the thought of what we could have together.
This is a temporary exile from our home, but it could be more. If he’s changed his mind, it could be the place where this really begins–where our relationship deepens without interference from others, or even just the interruptions of our normal day-to-day lives. I remember Max telling me at lunch that we’re not supposed to leave the estate unless necessary. It had felt awful then, being forced to be in the same house constantly with someone who, just a few hours before, had told me he couldn’t love me, no matter how much we wanted each other. It had felt like torture. But now–
As my hands drift down the back of his neck, Max lets out a low groan in his sleep. I do it again, feeling my heart leap into my throat at the sound, and he twitches, his hips jerking a little as he groans again, a low sound of pleasure.
My breath quickens, my pulse speeding up, beating like a butterfly in my throat. The chemistry between us has always felt electric to me, palpable, and right now, more so than ever, as I feel him react to my touch in this quiet, intimate closeness between us.
His eyes flicker open, and I smile faintly down at him.
Max is up in an instant, sitting up quickly and dislodging my hand as he rubs at his face. “Sasha?” His voice sounds almost disbelieving. “You’re awake. Oh God, you’re awake. I thought–”
“Was it that bad?” I definitelyfeelas if it was that bad. My memories of it all feel foggy, vague recollections that I can’t be sure if they were dreams or not. “I feel like I’ve been beaten. Or run over by a truck.”
“We weren’t sure if you would live.” Max looks down at me tiredly as my eyes widen with shock. “You were poisoned, Sasha.”
“What?” I blink at him, wondering if I heard him wrong. “Poisoned? That doesn’t make sense–who would do that? How?”
“We don’t know.” He rubs one hand over his mouth, as if his stubble irritates him. “Your symptoms started after the lunch we had in town, so our best guess is that someone followed us here, or got information that we’d be here, and poisoned your food. The only other possibility is that someone got to one of the staff members on the plane and tampered with your food or drink there. Viktor is questioning his staff closely to find out.”
I wince. I can only imagine what kind of “questioning” they are or have been enduring.
I just hope Viktor believes them if they say they didn’t do it. I can imagine Viktor’s rage at the thought of a member of his staff betraying him again, after what happened with Alexei, and it wouldn’t be a pretty thing.
“And you’re–you’re sure it was that?”
Max nods. “We had a doctor come to the house. He examined you and ran tests. He couldn’t identify the toxin, which made it all worse. He couldn’t do anything other than give you the most standard treatments or risk making you sicker. And then you just had to ride it out. We thought you were going to die for certain, a few days ago.”