Gianna
I don't know what made me run.
Maybe it was the smell of smoke clinging to the halls – faint but sharp, like a whisper that something had gone wrong.
Maybe it was Maria's hushed voice in the kitchen, whispering to another maid about Lincoln and 87th going up in flames, and someone saying he was there.
But maybe it was just instinct. These days, I could feel it when Dominic was nearby.
I had no idea my entry would lead to a fight.
I should've said something – anything – to make it stop.
But I couldn't.
Not when Dominic moved like that. Not when the sound of Rocco's body hitting the wall punched the breath from the room.
Not when Dominic tore the room in half just to shut him up.
I didn't ask for that. I didn't want it.
Did I?
Rocco deserved worse – he always did – but still, I could feel my face burning. I wasn't used to being the reason someone lost control.
And Dominic... he wasn't supposed to care. Not like that.
I had left him in the east wing, in the empty sitting room that no one used anymore.
The sitting room was half-lit when I came back, the kind of soft, quiet light you only get when someone doesn't want to be found but doesn't bother to hide either. Dominic sat with his elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them – bloodied, scraped, one of them still half-curled like it forgot the fight was over.
His shirt collar was open, marked with soot. Something darker, maybe blood, stained the side.
I stood there too long. He didn't look up.
"Hi," I said, awkwardly. Like I hadn't just left him there to go get first aid minutes before. Like I'd stumbled into someone I barely knew. Like he wasn't the man who had kissed me like I was the only steady thing in a collapsing world.
His head turned slowly. His eyes were hard to meet. But I met his eyes anyway.
"I bought – well, not bought – I grabbed the first-aid kit. From the hall."
No answer. He just looked at me.
"Not because I think you can't take care of yourself," I added quickly. "You obviously can. I mean… look at you. You're still sitting up. That's a good sign."
I sounded ridiculous.
He didn't laugh. Didn't move.
My feet carried me across the carpet before I made the decision to cross the room. I sat on the low table in front of him and opened the kit slowly, hands shaking a little more than I liked.
"Let me?" I asked.
A beat passed.
Then, finally, he extended his hand.
It was warm. Solid. Cut across the knuckles. I noticed the way his fingers curled slightly, still half-clenched, like some part of him was ready to throw the next punch.
I started cleaning the wound in silence, gently dabbing the torn skin. He didn't flinch. Just watched me. I felt his gaze even when I wasn't looking.
"I tried baking a different bread this morning," I said, trying not to sound breathless. "It exploded."
He blinked, slowly.
"Okay, not exploded, exploded. But it rose too fast and then collapsed in the oven. Like a soufflé with trust issues."
Nothing.
I swallowed.
"I figured I should get better at it," I said. "This new bread. In case you end up stuck with me and realize I'm useless in every other practical way."
I wrapped his knuckles carefully. My fingers brushed his wrist. He was still. Tense. Like he didn't know what to do with this kind of contact. Like it wasn't violence, so he didn't trust it.
"You didn't come see me," I said, the words quieter than I meant them. "After the office."
His voice came low – rough, like stone scraped against stone. "I didn't think you wanted me to."
"Why?"
"You said you didn't want the marriage."
I kept my focus on his hand. Steady, even though my pulse wasn't. "I also said I sleepwalk. And stress bake. And talk to ceramic frogs when I get nervous."
"You also said I scare you."
I paused. The bandage was secure, but I smoothed it again anyway. Just for a reason to stay close. To keep touching him.
"I think you imagined that one."
His head turned up. He looked at me – really looked. And I felt it like a blade.
"I read it in your eyes."
My breath caught, but I pushed anyway. "Was fear all that you read in them?"
His jaw clenched. Like the truth had teeth and he was trying not to let it bite through. His eyes dropped to where my hands rested against his.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
But he didn't move.
Neither did I.
I bit my lip, hard, trying not to look at how tightly he held himself together – like one wrong word from me might make the whole thing crack open.
"Is it true?" I asked, voice barely mine. "What they said downstairs? About the fire?"
He didn't answer.
"Was it ours?"
A single nod. Sharp.
"Was it… bad?"
"Contained," he said, but it felt like a lie.
"Was anyone hurt?"
"No."
I nodded too. Just once. Silence pressed between us like a weight. I wanted to say something that mattered, but everything in my throat felt too small. Too breakable.
"You don't have to protect me from the truth," I said quietly, eyes on the bandage like it could anchor me. "I live here too."
He didn't answer. Not really. Just stared through me like he was already building walls I'd never climb.
"I'm sorry about what Rocco said… to you," I offered, softer. "Leonardo, Rocco... they don't like the idea of this marriage. Or me."
His body went still in a way that wasn't calm. The kind of stillness that came before something dangerous.
"I know."
"They think I'm too gentle."
"You are," he said, without hesitation. Not cruel – but honest. Unapologetically so.
It stung, sharper than I expected. I blinked.
But before I could recoil, he added, "It's not an insult."
I didn't know I'd been holding my breath, until he spoke.
I smiled without meaning to.
His hand tensed under mine.
"You didn't have to do that," I said, barely louder than a breath, "You know… to Rocco."
He didn't flinch.
"Didn't I?"
"They're my cousins. It's not the first time they've run their mouths." I paused, trying to read his expression, but his face gave almost nothing away. "But that... what you did... That wasn't about them, was it?"
He didn't answer. Just looked at me – measured, steady, heavy in a way that pressed against my ribs.
"Why?" I asked, softer. Like the question itself might bruise something. "Why did you defend me like that?"
He leaned back a little, tension pulled tight across his jaw. His eyes were dark, unreadable.
"Some things you don't let people touch," he said. "Not even with words."
I held his gaze, even though something inside me pulled tight. My chest ached with it, quiet and sharp.
"And I'm one of those things?"
He didn't nod. Didn't blink.
"You were the second I decided you'd be my wife."
I thought my heart stopped. Then I realized it was beating so fast I could hear it in my throat, pulsing like it wanted out.
I got up slowly and gathered the kit.
He got up behind me.
We walked back down the hall together, footsteps soft, space still between us. But something lived in the silence now.
When we reached my door, he didn't touch me. Didn't lean in. Just stood there like a soldier on the edge of a battlefield.
But he had let me treat his wounds.
He had answered my questions.
And he had let me stay.
That was something.