Chapter Twenty-five – The Space Between Us

Chapter Twenty-five – The Space Between Us
MALIA

It was happening again.
Marcello. Too close.
Every time I turned, he was there. Too near. Too silent. Hovering like a shadow stitched to my movements — a half-step behind me in the hallway, brushing past me in the sunroom, hands lingering just a second too long when handing me a cup of tea or sliding open a door.
I wasn’t stupid. I could tell when someone was watching me. Measuring me.
And he was always watching.
The strange thing was… no one else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t care. Claire just smiled like everything was normal. Isabella avoided my gaze entirely.
It was just me. And him.
And the space between us that he kept testing — shrinking — like he was waiting for something to break.
I tried to ignore it at first. Chalked it up to paranoia. To nerves. To the warped reality of this place that called itself home and felt like a golden cage.
But by the third time I caught him standing behind me — not saying a word, not moving — just existing too close for too long, something snapped.
“Do you have to stand that close to me?” I asked, louder than I meant to.
He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head, lips curving with lazy amusement. “You’re very observant today, mia principessa.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snapped. “And I’m serious. Back off.”
His smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened. “Why? Am I making you nervous?”
I stiffened. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Interesting.” His tone lowered — not mocking, but indulgent. Like I’d said something he enjoyed hearing. “Because you don’t look uncomfortable.”
He took a step closer.
I stepped back — instinctively — only to find the edge of the marble table behind me. Nowhere to go.
“Marcello,” I warned.
And then he moved.
Not suddenly, not violently — but fast enough that my breath caught. One hand landed on the table beside me, the other found my waist, and he pulled.
I hit his chest with a soft gasp, hands braced against his shirt, heart hammering beneath my ribs.
Too close.
His mouth brushed the shell of my ear as he leaned in, voice low, velvet-wrapped steel. “You keep acting like you don’t enjoy this.”
“I don’t,” I hissed, even as my fingers curled against him, unsure whether to push him away or hold on.
“No?” His grip didn’t tighten, didn’t hurt — but it was firm. Possessive. “Then why aren’t you screaming?”
I shoved lightly at his chest. “Because I don’t want to escalate things. Because I’m trying to be smart about not pissing off some guy who clearly doesn’t know what personal space means.”
“Oh, principessa…” he whispered, breath hot on my skin, “you really think Blaine would care if I touched you?”
That made me freeze.
“What?” My voice was sharp, cold. “He’s your boss, isn’t he? Your employer? The head of this whole… twisted empire?”
Marcello chuckled, low and dark. “Let’s just say… Blaine and I have always shared many things. We don’t mind taking turns.”
I went still.
Every hair on my body stood on end.
My skin crawled.
“You’re joking,” I said, but the words came out too soft, too unsure.
He didn’t answer.
Not with words.
Instead, his hand slid — slowly — from my waist to the small of my back, tracing the curve like he owned it.
Like he was entitled to it.
My mouth went dry.
The implication rooted itself in my brain like poison.
Was that what this was?
Was I supposed to be passed around? A toy? A body to be traded between the men who owned this world?
My stomach turned.
“No,” I breathed. “Don’t—don’t touch me like that. I don’t belong to you.”
“You don’t belong to anyone,” he murmured, “yet.”
His fingers moved again — not groping, not overt — but slow and deliberate, sliding over the fabric of my shirt like he was cataloging territory. My body stiffened, frozen in disbelief, revulsion… and something worse.
Because the worst part wasn’t his closeness.
It was how my body didn’t hate it.
The warmth of his touch. The heat radiating between us. The way my pulse jumped not in fear, but something dangerously adjacent to thrill.
No.
No, no, no.
I tried to pull away — again — but he held me steady, not letting me retreat.
“Marcello,” I said, forcing the name through clenched teeth. “If you don’t let go of me right now—”
“What?” he interrupted, but softly. “You’ll scream? Hit me? Cry? I don’t think you will. Because you want to know if I’m lying.”
He wasn’t wrong.
And that scared me even more.
Because some part of me did want to know. Needed to know.
Was this who Blaine really was? The kind of man who handed out his fiancée like a trophy? Was that the world I’d been dragged into — where power decided whose hands were allowed on my skin?
I hated him in that moment.
But I hated myself more.
Because I could feel the way my breath caught when Marcello moved closer. I could feel how easily I’d slipped into the shape of his body, like I belonged there.
And that wasn’t supposed to happen.
It wasn’t supposed to feel good.
“You’re disgusting,” I whispered, but my voice broke.
His gaze flicked to my mouth
And for a second — just one insane, electrified second — I thought he might kiss me.
But then He let go.
The heat vanished.
He stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender. “As you wish.”
I stood there, breath shaking, skin on fire.
“I’m not a toy,” I said, still trembling.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re not. And I don’t play with things I don’t intend to keep.”
He turned without another word and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
And I stood there, hands curled into fists, heart pounding, mouth dry — wondering how the hell I was supposed to survive this house.