Chapter 24 24

Chapter 24 24
Aurora 
The early morning light filters in through the sheer curtains, casting a soft golden glow over the room. Rain still patters gently against the window, but it’s no longer vicious, just a soft, constant rhythm like nature is still humming in its sleep. The scent of last night’s dinner still lingers faintly in the air, mixed with the fresh, woody smell of the lake outside. The sheets around me are tangled and warm, and I feel Damiano’s body behind me. His chest pressed gently against my back, one heavy arm draped possessively around my waist.
But I can’t move. My body aches with the aftermath of our night together, especially between my thighs, where I’m still sore and bruised from his love, his passion, his hunger.
I shift slightly and wince. A soft gasp escapes me.
Damiano stirs.
“Birdie?” His voice is husky with sleep, low and gravelly, like it’s still coated with dreams. He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me with furrowed brows. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t walk,” I whisper. My voice is soft, a little embarrassed, a little amused, but mostly just honest. “I’m still sore. Everywhere.”
He lets out a soft groan, not of frustration, but of regret and concern. “Shit... I went too far last night.”
“No,” I murmur, turning my face into the pillow. “You didn’t. But... can you carry me to the bathroom?”
There’s a pause.
Then he leans in and presses a kiss to the back of my shoulder. “Of course I can.”
Damiano sits up, the robe falling loosely around his waist, revealing the marks I left on his back. I bite my lip, remembering how tightly I held onto him, how deep he was inside me, how much I needed him. He swings his legs off the bed and stretches for a second, then moves toward me.
Carefully, gently, like I’m something delicate, he gathers me into his arms. I wrap mine around his neck and rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“You feel like you weigh nothing,” he says, smiling down at me. “Still going to feed you more pasta in Italy.”
I smile faintly. “Only if it comes with gelato.”
He chuckles softly and carries me through the warm, rustic room, past the soft creak of wooden floors, into the clean, tiled bathroom. The rain sounds louder in here, drumming on the skylight above. He sets me down slowly onto the bathroom counter, keeping a hand on my waist to steady me.
“Want a bath?” he asks, brushing the hair from my face. “Hot water, salts, the works.”
I nod.
He reaches over to start the water, and I just sit there, watching him. This man, so dangerous, so feared, so complicated—now kneeling beside a bathtub, making sure the temperature is just right for me. For a moment, nothing else matters. Not the past, not the secrets, not the storm still thundering in the background.
Just this.
Us.
Before we return to a world waiting to pull us apart.
We get dressed slowly, carefully. My body still aches, every movement a reminder of the night we spent tangled in each other. I slip into my baby pink shirt and white shorts from yesterday—now dry and soft from the warmth in the room. Damiano buttons his black shirt over his chest and rolls his sleeves to his forearms. His trousers fit him like they were sewn directly on him, and he looks effortlessly handsome, even with his hair slightly messy and his beard more unruly than usual.
The weather outside has shifted. The rain has finally stopped, and a gentle light breaks through the clouded sky. Not bright, but soft and golden, casting a quiet glow on the lake and trees. It feels like the world is exhaling.
Damiano walks over to me and wraps his arm around my waist, anchoring me to him. I lean into his side, letting him carry most of my weight. Every step still sends echoes of soreness through me, but being next to him, feeling his strength and presence, makes it easier.
We step into the waiting boat, and the boatman quietly rows us across the calmer water. The lake is still, as if it never held the chaos of the night before. We reach the restaurant where it all started, and the staff greets us warmly. Damiano orders something light—coffee, croissants, a bit of fruit. I barely manage to eat, still floating in the haze of everything we’ve shared.
After breakfast, he helps me down the stone steps and leads me toward his car. His hand never leaves mine. When we reach it, he opens the passenger door and helps me in gently, brushing my hair from my face before closing the door.
He walks around, gets into the driver’s seat, and pauses.
“Dio…” he mutters, picking up his phone from the dashboard.
The screen flashes with missed calls and messages—dozens of them. His jaw tightens slightly, but not in anger. Just calm control. He dials quickly.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” he says into the phone. “Tell the men to stand down. I stayed at the lake resort. I’ll be home in an hour.”
He ends the call, sets the phone aside, and reaches for my hand. His fingers thread through mine as he starts the engine and begins driving, one hand always steady on the wheel, the other never letting go of me.
“You alright?” he asks, eyes still on the road, sunglasses shading them from the morning light.
I look at him, really look at him. The sharp cut of his jaw, the sunglasses sitting perfectly on his face, the way the light catches in the dark strands of his hair. His beard is thick but trimmed just right, rough, masculine, perfect. Everything about him right now makes my chest ache in the most beautiful way.
He catches me staring and smirks.
“What?” he teases. “You look like you’re about to write a poem about me.”
I blush, caught.
I squeeze his hand and bring it to my lips, kissing the back of it softly.
“You’re too caring sometimes,” I whisper. “I love that about you.”
He doesn’t respond with words, just gives me the warmest smile. The kind of smile that makes me feel like no matter what storms come next, I’ll be okay as long as he’s the one driving me through them.
The road curves beneath us, weaving through trees still dripping from last night’s storm. The lake disappears behind us, but its echo still lingers inside me, the quiet, the storm, the ring on my finger.
The hum of the car is steady, almost lulling. Damiano’s hand remains wrapped around mine the entire ride. He squeezes gently every few minutes, his way of checking on me without needing words.
We finally pull into the long driveway of the villa. The tall gates open slowly, like the house already senses our return. As the tires roll over the gravel, I feel a strange stillness settle in me. It’s the kind of stillness that comes after chaos—the kind that feels sacred.
Damiano parks the car and gets out first. Before I can reach for the handle, he’s already at my side, opening the door and offering me his hand.
“I got you,” he says, his voice low, warm.
I nod, letting him help me out. My legs still tremble slightly with every step, and he notices. Without a second thought, he lifts me into his arms.
“Damiano…” I whisper, a little breathless.
“No arguing,” he murmurs. “You need rest. Let me take care of you.”
I tuck my face into his neck, breathing him in, earth, spice, and something unmistakably his.
He carries me up the steps and into the house. It’s quiet inside, the staff nowhere in sight, maybe instructed to keep their distance today. The only sound is the soft tap of his shoes on the floor as he brings me upstairs.
He lays me gently on the bed, brushing the hair from my forehead. The moment our eyes meet, everything slows again. I reach for his hand.
“You were everything I needed last night,” I say quietly.
He leans down and presses his lips to mine, tender, unhurried.
“And you were more than I ever expected,” he replies.
Damiano helps me into one of his soft, oversized shirts, it drapes over me like a warm hug, smelling faintly of him. He tucks the blankets around me with care, brushing a kiss against my forehead.
“I have to go to work,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost reluctant. “If it wasn’t important, I’d stay with you.”
I look up at him, my fingers loosely curling around his wrist, not wanting to let go just yet.
“I’ll call my servant to cook you something,” he continues gently, pulling the duvet a little higher over me. “Rest. I’ll see you this evening.”
I nod, even though every part of me wishes he could stay a little longer.
He stands and walks to the closet, pulling out his usual uniform, black shirt, black slacks, black shoes. Always black, as if color never dared enter his life. As if something in him has been in mourning far too long.
He buttons his shirt slowly. The muscles in his forearms flex with each movement, his expression unreadable, carved from focus and shadow.
I whisper softly, “You look like you’re going to war.”
He pauses, then glances at me over his shoulder. “Maybe I am,” he replies with a small, tired smirk.
Before leaving, he walks over to the bed one last time and leans down. He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing softly across my skin.
“Sleep, birdie. I’ll come home to you.”
He kisses me, then straightens and walks to the door. I watch him go, silent in the warm cocoon of his shirt and the fading scent of his cologne.
The room feels colder once he’s gone.