3 Days/ The Double Life

Episode 3: The Sleep

His hand was still there. Palm up. In the middle of my tiny, dirty mattress in

Florence.

I stared at it like it was a weapon.

Because in a way, it was. Venerio Octavian's hands had never offered. They took. They commanded. They signed death warrants and broke jaws. I'd seen the police reports after I started digging into Octavian two years ago. I'd seen what those hands could do.

But this hand... this hand was shaking. Just slightly.

"I... I ..." My voice cracked. I had faced guns, knives, men twice his size without flinching. But I couldn't say a word to the man sitting on my floor.

He didn't rush me. He just sat there in that heavy black coat that was too warm for Florence, looking at me in his old college hoodie that was three sizes too big for me. His hair was damp from the night air. There was a faint cut on his bottom lip, like he'd been biting it.

"You don't have to say anything," he said quietly. "You never did. You were always... Uhm..."

He mocked me gently, that soft sound I always made when I wanted to say yes but was too shy, too scared.

A strangled laugh escaped me. Tears, too. God, I was a mess.

He moved then, but not the way I expected. He didn't grab me. He shifted forward onto the mattress, slowly, giving me time to pull away. When I didn't, when I couldn't, he reached out.

And then I broke.

I launched myself at him. Or maybe I fell. I don't know. One second I was against the wall, the next my face was buried in his neck, my arms locked around his shoulders so tight I was shaking. His old hoodie between us. My legs tangled with his.

The smell of him — rain, cold flight, expensive cologne, and something underneath that was just Ver — hit me and seven years of being untouchable, of being the ghost assassin who never cried, shattered.

He froze. Just for one second. I felt it. A full-body stillness, like he couldn't believe I was really there. Like he thought I was another dream he'd had in that rose garden for seven nights straight.

Then his arms came around me.

One around my waist, yanking me flush against him. The other cradling the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, holding me like he was trying to put my pieces back together and hold his own together at the same time.

"Hey... hey, it's okay," he whispered into my hair, his voice finally breaking. That cold, heir voice was gone. It was Ver again. My Ver from the college apartment who used to hold me after nightmares I never explained. "I'm here. I'm here now. You don't have to look over your shoulder every five minutes anymore."

I couldn't answer. I was sobbing into his neck, quiet, ugly sobs that I'd been holding in since I left him. Since I left that cash on the table. Since I took that first contract and realized I would never be normal.

"Uhm..." I managed.

That was it. That stupid sound.

He laughed, wetly, against my hair. I felt his shoulders shake.

"Uhm what, baby?" he murmured, rocking me slightly. His hand rubbed up and down my back, feeling the familiar shape of his hoodie on me. Possessive, even in comfort. "You don't have to decide anything tonight. Do you want me to hold you like this? Or do you want me to let go? Just tell me. One word. Tell me to let go and I will."

I tightened my grip. My nails dug into his coat.

"Don't," I whispered. The first clear word I'd said. "Don't let go."

He exhaled, like he'd been holding his breath for two years.

"Never again," he said. And it sounded like a vow. Like a threat to the world.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted us. He laid me down properly on the thin pillow, my head on his arm. He took his heavy black coat off and draped it over me like a blanket. It was huge, warm, it smelled like him and safety, a thing I hadn't felt in years.

Then he lay down beside me on that small mattress that was way too small for two people. It creaked under our weight. My tiny apartment was not built for a man like Venerio Octavian.

But it was perfect.

He pulled me back against his chest, my back to his front, his arm locked around my waist. His legs tangled with mine. His lips found the back of my neck, that same spot he had branded in the garden.

"Sleep, Nancy," he whispered, his voice low and rough with exhaustion. "I'll be here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere. No more 3 days. No more hunting. No more running."

His hand slid under the hoodie — his hoodie — and rested flat against my stomach, warm skin on skin. Possessive. Claiming. You are here. You are mine. You are safe.

For the first time in a week, my body stopped trembling. For the first time in two years, my brain stopped calculating exits.

I fell asleep just like that. In his arms. In Florence. With dead basil on the balcony and a contract still on his head that I was supposed to fulfill.

Outside, Florence was quiet. No guards changing shifts. No Broker calling. Just the faint sound of our breathing, finally in sync again after two years of being apart.

For the first time in seven days, Venerio Octavian closed his eyes too.

And for the first time in two years, the devil in the white shirt actually slept. Because the only thing that could keep him awake — me — was finally back where she belonged.

In his arms.