"Things are already worse!" Marie cried out, her voice breaking with the weight of everything she was carrying. "I am stuck here with a murderer—with you—and I have to pretend that you did not kill my rapist of a cousin who kidnapped me and tried to do unspeakable things to me."
Her voice dropped to something more desperate.
"And I have to pretend that the King is not complicit in all of it. That he is fair and just when he is clearly part of this conspiracy. How am I supposed to navigate any of this?"
Lorenzo reached for a clean shirt.
She turned away, pacing.
"They're watching every step I take."
"They whisper every time I walk past."
"They're trying to convince everyone William and I are plotting together."
She stopped herself, pressing trembling fingers against her temples.
"I have to mourn ...Cursed Matthew."
She laughed.
It came out broken.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
"I'm tired."
"So..."
"So tired."
She covered her face.
A sob escaped before she could stop it.
Lorenzo moved to Marie. Without speaking, without asking permission, she simply pulled her into her arms.
Marie stiffened, and then hit her chest once with a clenched fist.
Then again.
More frustration than strength.
Lorenzo's arms tightened around her, one hand stroking her hair gently as Marie's shoulders began to shake with silent sobs.
"I know," Lorenzo whispered against the top of her head. "So mio. Lo so." (I know. I know.)
Her fists gradually lost their force.
Until they simply rested against Lorenzo's chest.
The sobs came harder.
Her forehead slowly lowered onto Lorenzo's shoulder.
There were no words capable of repairing what had happened.
So she simply held her.
And, little by little, Marie accepted the embrace.
The hug deepened before either of them realized it was happening.
What had begun as comfort and desperation transformed into something far more dangerous. Lorenzo, taller by several inches, pulled Marie closer, and the difference in their heights became suddenly, acutely present.
She caged Marie against her body, her frame creating a shelter around her. One hand moved lower, finding Marie's waist through the black silk of her gown, fingers splaying against the curve of her hip. The contact was possessive without being aggressive
Her other hand moved upward, finding the delicate line of Marie's neck. She held it there, not tight, but with enough pressure to make Marie's breath catch. Just enough to suggest control. Just enough to make Marie's pulse race beneath her touch.
Lorenzo inhaled deeply against Marie's neck, breathing her in as though she could somehow absorb her through scent alone.
"Mi piace il tuo profumo," (I like the way you smell,) Lorenzo whispered against her ear, her voice rough with desire. "Mi piace talmente tanto." (I like it so much.)
The Italian words were intimate, spoken in a way that suggested they had been said before in different contexts, in different rooms, in darkness.
Marie's hands, which had been her palms pressing against the fabric of Lorenzo's shirt, began to roam as the embrace intensified.
Her fingers dug into Lorenzo's biceps, her nails catching on the fabric in a way that was more urgent than careful. It was the kind of touch that suggested she was holding on for balance, for grounding, for something to anchor herself to as the world seemed to tilt.
When Lorenzo crushed down slightly, pulling Marie even deeper into the embrace, Marie was forced forward, her face pressing directly into Lorenzo's neck. She inhaled there—the warmth of her skin contrasting with the coolness of the night air, the scent of her unique and intoxicating.
Marie's hands moved from Lorenzo's arms, sliding down the muscular line of her back before moving up again to find the collar of her shirt. She pulled the fabric closer, needing the closeness in a way that transcended rational thought.
And then her fingers found their way beneath the collar, threading upward, discovering the warm skin of Lorenzo's neck and the line of her jaw. Her hand continued upward, fingers spreading through Lorenzo's hair.
"Your hair," Marie whispered against Lorenzo's ear. "You cut it quite short. I have not seen it like this up close."
Her fingers continued their exploration, and Lorenzo found herself holding her breath as Marie touched her carefully, almost curiously.
"It is smoother than I expected,"Marie continued, her voice soft with wonder.
Lorenzo smiled against Marie's neck, the expression hidden but felt in the slight shift of her features. She inhaled near Marie's ear, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin, the faint fragrance of roses that clung to her.
Shivers ran through Marie's body at the sensation.
"Something told me you would like it on me,"Lorenzo whispered, her words warm against Mare's skin. "I am happy it pleases you."
"That is not what I said," Marie said, but her voice suggested otherwise. Her fingers were still tangled in Lorenzo's hair, tracing the line of her neck, seeming to explore every inch of exposed skin. "I am just... noticing things. About ...you."
Slowly, they shifted. Their bodies moved with the fluid ease of people finding a new position, their faces turning toward each other until they were nearly nose to nose.
The space between their lips seemed impossibly small. Marie could feel Lorenzo's breath—warm, slightly uneven—against her mouth.
Their eyes met and locked.
The intensity was almost unbearable.
The gap between their lips continued to shrink.
Breath by breath.
A knock at the door.
Loud.
"Your Highness," Marcello's voice came through the heavy canvas, his tone carefully neutral. "The King is preparing to address the court. There will be a prayer, and then dinner will be served. You are expected immediately."
The moment shattered like glass. Marie separated from Lorenzo quickly.
"Cazzo!" (Fuck!) Lorenzo shouted through the door, her voice sharp enough to make the canvas vibrate. "Posso avere un momento di pace qui? Non riesco a stare un minuto nella mia stanza senza che il re cerchi di trascinami nella sua routine!" (Can I have a moment of peace here? I cannot spend a minute in my room without the King trying to drag me into his routine!)
Marie's eyes widened. She had never seen Lorenzo like this—raw and frustrated and genuinely, vulnerably angry. It was a side of her that felt almost human in its unguarded emotion.
Outside, Marcello scratched the back of his head, clearly used to Lorenzo's temperamental outbursts but no less resigned by them.
"Bene, bene, bene," (Fine, fine, fine,) Marcello called back through the door, his tone carefully measured. "Qualunque cosa tu stia facendo, se riuscissi ad accelerare un po'... ragazzi, cercate di farlo velocemente. Perché è strano. Si suppone che tu sia lì. E non vedo come spiegherò al re che state passando del tempo di qualità." (Whatever you are doing, if you could speed it up a bit... kids, try to make it fast. Because it is strange. You are supposed to be there. And I do not see how I am going to explain to the King that you two are having quality time.)
Marie's arms folded across her chest, a mixture of surprise and indignation on her face.
"Che cosa gli fa pensare che stiamo avendo del tempo di qualità?" (What makes him think we are having quality time?) she demanded horrified by how narrowminded old men can be.
Lorenzo turned to her, her dark eyes gleaming with something dangerous and amused.
"Perché stavi per baciarmi," (Because you were about to kiss me,) Lorenzo said simply, switching to Italian with ease. "E io avrei risposto." (And I would have reciprocated.)
Marie's face flushed crimson.
"It was just a moment of weakness, she said defensively, turning away.I just needed the warmth. The closeness. It means nothing.
Lorenzo stepped closer, her voice dropping to something lower, more seductive.
"Since you tried to kiss me, you might as well go all the way,"Lorenzo said, her tone carrying a note of challenge and desire intertwined.
"I will not " Marie said sharply, moving toward the door. "I will not. I need to go. You should hurry up. I will wait outside.
But before Marie could reach the door, Lorenzo moved with that preternatural speed—a blur of motion that brought her to the entrance in an instant. She planted her hand against the wooden frame, effectively blocking Marie's exit.
"Non la lascerò andare da questa stanza fino a quando non avrò il mio bacio," (I will not let you leave this room until I have my kiss,) Lorenzo said, her voice carrying absolute conviction.
Marie turned to face her, incredulous.
"How old are you?" Marie demanded.
Lorenzo smirked, leaning against the door with the casual confidence of someone who held all the power in this moment.
"Sono abbastanza vecchia da capire come funzionano i commerci," (I am actually old enough to understand how trade works,) Lorenzo replied, her tone dripping with amusement. "A meno che non mi baci, non ti lascerò uscire da questa stanza." (Unless you kiss me, I will not let you out of this room.)
Marie rolled her eyes, but her arms unfolded from their defensive position. She took a step toward Lorenzo, and then another, until she was standing directly in front of her.
She reached up and pulled Lorenzo's face down to hers.
It was meant to be a quick kiss—a perfunctory gesture meant to satisfy the demand and allow her to leave.
But Lorenzo had other ideas.
The moment their lips met, she wrapped her arms around Marie and deepened the kiss with unmistakable intent. Her tongue traced the curve of Marie's lower lip before gently biting it, drawing a gasp from Marie that gave her access to deepen the kiss further.
It was messy and urgent and absolutely consuming.
Lorenzo's mouth moved against Marie's with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was doing—exploring, tasting, claiming. Her hands moved upward, one finding the soft spot on her waist, holding her, while the other slid down to cup her breast through the fabric of her black gown.
Marie whimpered and her hands found their way into Lorenzo's hair, pulling her closer.
The kiss deepened further, becoming increasingly heated. Their breathing synchronized, ragged and uneven. Marie's body responded, pressing closer to Lorenzo, seeking more of the contact that was making her entire being burn with need inside her woumb.
Lorenzo's thumb traced circles against Marie's breast, and she groaned into the kiss, a sound of frustration and desire mingled together.
Finally, breathless and dizzy, they broke apart.
Marie's lips were swollen, her breathing coming in short gasps. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes flashing with anger—or was it embarrassment?
"Can I pass now? she asked, her voice sharp with irritation.
Lorenzo remained leaning against the door, her own breathing uneven, her eyes still dark with desire.
"Perché chiami sempre Pierro se riesci a malapena a nascondere il tuo desiderio per me?" (Why do you call for Pierro so much when you can barely hide your desire for me?) Lorenzo asked quietly, her voice carrying an undertone of hurt beneath the provocation.
Marie fixed her disheveled clothes, smoothing down her gown, trying to regain some semblance of composure.
"Alright! You want the truth. There it is! Trovo Lorenzo attraente," (I do find you attractive,)Marie admitted, her voice reluctant. "Sono curiosa di te. È solo lussuria. La vicinanza. Il fatto che condividiamo una stanza. Che vediamo i corpi l'uno dell'altro." (I am curious about you. It is just lust. The proximity. The fact that we share a room. That we see each other's bodies.)
She paused, her expression becoming more conflicted.
"È come un risveglio sessuale che le ragazze sotto la tutela dei genitori non possono vivere. Quando penso a Pierro, sento qualcosa di più vicino al sentimento che ricordo per mio marito." (It is like a sexual awakening that girls under parental tutelage cannot experience. When I think of Pierro, I feel something closer to the feeling I remember for my husband.)
The words hit Lorenzo like a physical blow.
She flinched visibly, her expression shifting from desire to something wounded.
Marie sighed, seeing the pain in Lorenzo's eyes.
"I know what lust is"Marie said softly, her voice losing its sharp edge. "But what I feel is not just lust. I am still convinced that my husband could not possibly be a woman."
Lorenzo pushed herself off the door without a word. She walked away from Marie, her movements stiff, controlled, barely containing the emotion roiling beneath the surface.
Marie bit her lip, feeling the weight of guilt settle on her chest. She knew her words had wounded Lorenzo, but she could not take them back and that is how she felt. There was not point lying about it.