THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-FIVE


I woke to the pale hush of morning pressing against the windows, the sheets twisted around my legs, the scent of smoke still clinging to my skin. My body ached—not from injury, but from sheer tension. Sleep had been shallow at best, haunted by the red smear of that card and the sound of fire crackling behind my eyelids.

The room was silent.

I sat up slowly, squinting through the quiet. The armchair across the room was empty. Wesley was gone.

On the low table beside the bed, a single sheet of paper waited. His handwriting, clipped and slanted, stared back at me:

“Stay here. Don’t make me find you again.”

I exhaled through my nose, a bitter puff of air. The ink might as well have been a chain. Stay. Sit. Obey.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The air still felt wrong—like it remembered last night too well. My throat was dry. My skin itched. I needed a shower and space. Mostly space.

The suite’s marble bathroom steamed quickly under the hot water. I scrubbed until my skin pinked, until the ghost of fire gave up its grip. By the time I stepped out and dressed, Wesley still hadn’t returned. Good. I wasn’t in the mood to be shadowed.

I slipped into my shoes and left the suite quietly, heading for the east wing. There were more than enough guest rooms in this fortress of a house. I didn’t need to be tethered to his.

The hallways felt colder without him nearby, though I hated myself for noticing.

I made it halfway down the corridor when two guards appeared like ghosts. Suits, earpieces, and unreadable expressions. One of them stepped forward, palm out.

“Apologies, Ms. Bernadi. Mr. Morano’s orders—”

“Don’t,” I cut in, voice tight. “Don’t call me that. And I don’t care about his orders. I’m finding my own damn room.”

The other guard shifted. “We’re under direct instruction not to let you wander unaccompanied—”

“I’m not wandering. I’m breathing.” I folded my arms. “Unless you plan on dragging me back, I suggest you move.”

They didn’t get a chance to decide. Wesley’s voice cut through the hall like a blade.

“Stand down.”

I turned. He was walking toward us with that quiet, controlled intensity that always made the air around him feel thinner. He didn’t even look at the guards—his eyes were locked on mine.

“Catrina.” Just my name, but weighted.

I crossed my arms tighter. “I’m not a prisoner.”

“No,” he said calmly. “You’re a target.”

My jaw clenched. “I need room to think. That doesn’t mean I need to be watched.”

He stopped just in front of me. There was no heat in his voice, only ice. “You can think all you want. From the suite.”

I hated how steady he looked. How reasonable. I wanted to yell, to shake him—but he was already pulling back.

“You want me to be safe,” I said, “or obedient?”

His gaze sharpened. For a second, I thought he’d let the mask drop. But instead, he stepped closer, so close I had to tilt my chin to hold his eyes.

“Pick a room in the suite,” he said quietly. “I don’t care which one. But you don’t sleep alone.”

My chest tightened. Not from fear. From something knotted and sharp and unspoken.

“Fine,” I said finally, stepping back. “But I’m taking the guest room across the suite.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

The guards moved aside. I walked past him without another word, but I felt it—the heat of his gaze following me. Not possessive. Not quite protective. Just there. Constant. Like the fire hadn’t gone out at all.

The guest room was quiet. Too quiet.

I sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, staring at the pale shadows the lamp threw across the ceiling. The estate’s silence didn’t feel peaceful—it felt… expectant. Like the walls were holding their breath.

The faintest sound cracked through the stillness.

A dull thump. Soft. Distant. But wrong.

I sat up slowly, listening. Nothing. Then—another sound. A low creak.

I slipped off the bed, my bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floor. The air felt different, colder near the balcony. My stomach twisted.

The curtains were swaying.

I stepped closer and saw it—the balcony door. It was cracked open an inch. I’d locked it earlier. I was sure of it.

My pulse jumped. I reached for my phone—only to find it unplugged on the nightstand. The charger was gone.

Gone.

Panic spiked hard and fast in my chest. I backed away from the door, heart pounding.

The bedroom door burst open with a crash.

Wesley.

Gun in hand. Barefoot, shirtless, eyes scanning every corner like a wolf scenting blood. His chest heaved once—then he spotted me.

His voice was low and lethal. “Behind me.”

I moved. No questions. Just instinct.

A second later, two guards appeared behind him, weapons drawn. Wesley didn’t take his eyes off the balcony.

“Sensor picked up movement on the outer wall,” one of the guards said. “West quadrant. They’re gone now.”

“Check the perimeter again,” Wesley growled. “And sweep the room.”

The men disappeared without a word.

Wesley stepped into the balcony doorway and examined the lock. His hand hovered over the knob, fingers twitching slightly. Then he clicked the door shut and turned back to me.

“Were you in here the entire time?” he asked tightly.

I nodded. “I heard something. The door—”

His jaw flexed. “Someone scaled the wall. Triggered the silent alert outside your suite.”

I exhaled shakily. “Why now? What did they want?”

He didn’t answer.

The guards returned minutes later. “No trace on the cameras. Whoever it was knew where the blind spots were.”

Wesley cursed under his breath. “Keep the perimeter tight. No one comes in or out.”

The guards nodded and vanished again.

Wesley turned back toward me. He scanned the room one more time, then froze.

His gaze fixed on something near the pillows. He crossed the room in two steps, reached beneath the nearest one, and pulled it out slowly.

An opal chain glinted in his palm.

I stared at it, my throat tightening.

It was my necklace. The one Wesley had given me two nights ago. The one Marco had taken that same night while I was asleep.

“I—” I choked on the words. “That was gone. He took it.”

Wesley didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the necklace like it was proof of a murder.

Something shifted behind his eyes. Not panic. Not confusion. Just rage. Cold and deep and buried under layers of calculation.

He looked at me then. Really looked. And when he reached out, it wasn’t violent. It was steady. Final.

He took my arm—not harshly, but with no room for negotiation. “You sleep where I can see you now.”

I wanted to argue. But the words wouldn’t come.

He turned, necklace still clutched in his fist, and led me back across the suite.

Into his room.



The room was quiet again—but not like before.

This quiet held breath. The kind that comes after something breaks.

I lay on my back, Wesley’s bed swallowing me in crisp sheets and too much space. He hadn’t said a word after leading me here. Just grabbed a throw blanket and settled onto the couch like it was second nature.

I didn’t argue. Not this time.

But sleep wouldn’t come.

The gold necklace rested on the nightstand now, coiled like a threat. I couldn’t stop looking at it. I’d tried to bury it under my scarf, but I could still feel it watching me—like Marco’s ghost had slipped it beneath my pillow as a joke. A warning. A promise.

I turned over.

Then again.

Still no use.

The silence between me and Wesley wasn’t peaceful. It pulsed. Thick, heated, unspoken. His presence was like gravity. Even with my back to him, I could feel the weight of his body across the room. Could feel how his nearness refused to let my heart slow down.

I should’ve felt safer.

But it wasn’t safety that kept me awake.

It was him.

Somewhere deep in the night, I heard it.

A sound—low and strained, muffled by breath.

I froze. Sat up slowly.

It came again. A soft, strangled noise, like someone choking back words—or pain.

I turned toward the couch.

Wesley.

He was shirtless under the thin blanket, one arm flung over his chest. His face was twisted—tensed. Lips pressed tightly together. His jaw clenched and unclenched with every shallow breath.

His chest rose, erratic. Like he was trapped beneath something I couldn’t see.

Dreaming.

Or remembering.

Another sound escaped him—a sharp exhale, like he’d been punched in the gut. His fingers twitched. Then stilled.

The flicker of fear in my chest melted into something heavier. Something quieter. Recognition.

I pushed the covers back and slipped out of bed. My feet met the cold floor with a shiver. I padded across the room slowly, not sure what I was doing. Not sure what I could even say.

He didn’t stir.

Just breathed like the air was poison.

I stood over him, watching the muscles in his chest tense again, like he was bracing for impact. A tremor passed through him, small but unmistakable.

I reached out.

Hesitated.

My fingers hovered just above his shoulder. The skin there was warm. Tense. Unyielding. And then, softer than breath, I touched him.

His eyes snapped open.

He didn’t move—but his entire body went rigid beneath my hand.

“Hey,” I whispered. “It’s just me.”

His breath came fast, shallow. But his eyes locked on mine—wild for a second, then slowly grounding. His chest rose. Fell.

“I heard you,” I said. “You were—” I stopped. I didn’t want to say dreaming. Didn’t want to call it what it was.

His voice came hoarse, like it had clawed its way through whatever world he’d just returned from. “Go back to bed.”

I didn’t move.

Neither did he.

The air between us felt charged. Too warm. Too close.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay,” I said quietly.

His jaw ticked. He looked away.

And for the first time, I saw it—not the polished mask he always wore. Not the command. Not the quiet threat.

Just the weight of something old and heavy sitting in his chest. Something he never let anyone see.

Not even me.

I backed away slowly. Gave him the space he always demanded.

But when I slipped back into bed, I kept watching.

Not because I was afraid.

But because I didn’t want to miss it next time.