Porcelain & Fire

Caught

Alessia

The entire day drags like a slow countdown in my chest.

At breakfast, I barely taste the coffee. My fork scrapes idly at my plate while I sneak glances at Matteo standing guard, stiff and unshakable, and all I can think is: you don't even know what's coming.

By midday, I can't sit still. I wander the halls, restless, pretending to read in the library, flicking through books without seeing a single word. The staff murmur about how distracted I look, but none of them know why. None of them see the way my pulse spikes every time I pass a window and think of Luca waiting just beyond the walls.

By late afternoon, the boredom gnaws at me. I stage little rebellions-feet on the coffee table, biting remarks at Matteo, smug smiles when he doesn't rise to them. But even that doesn't satisfy. Not today. Because tonight isn't about taunting him. Tonight is about winning.

Evening falls, and I can barely breathe from the anticipation. Every tick of the clock is a spark against dry kindling. I replay Luca's grin in my mind, the promise in his voice when he said he'd make the distraction. Hours, not minutes. Freedom, not stolen gasps.

By the time the house darkens and Matteo takes his usual post outside my door, my body hums with electricity. I pace my room, heart hammering, waiting for the signal.

Tonight, I won't just rattle the bars of my cage.

Tonight, I'll step out of it.

The house is too quiet. Too steady. Matteo's boots creak once in the corridor outside my door, then still. The guard dog in his post. Right where I want him.

I perch on the edge of my bed, every nerve alive, waiting.

Then it comes.

A sharp crack. The lights flicker once, twice-then cut. A distant alarm wails, shrill and sudden, echoing through the halls. Shouts follow-guards moving, orders being barked, doors slamming.

The distraction. Luca's distraction.

My heart kicks hard in my chest. This is it.

I move fast, practiced-sliding the window open, swinging one leg over the sill. The night air is cool against my skin, and I climb down the trellis as easily as I've done a hundred times before.

My feet hit the ground without a sound.

He's already there.

Luca steps from the hedge, breathless grin flashing in the dark. Dark hair mussed, uniform jacket unbuttoned, cigarette smoke clinging to him like sin. That grin-lazy, cocky, the one I've been kissing off him for weeks.

"Told you I'd make it easy." His hand finds mine without hesitation, warm, sure. "Come on, bella. Let's go."

We run.

Through the orchard, shadows swallowing us whole, our laughter muffled against the night. It's wild, dangerous, perfect. My lungs burn, my legs ache, but the thrill carries me. For the first time in forever, I feel untouchable.

Luca squeezes my hand tighter. "See? Freedom tastes better than any of your father's wine."

I laugh, reckless and breathless, leaning into him as we weave through the trees. Every glance he gives me is hot with triumph, with want, with the same hunger that's kept me sneaking back to him night after night.

The estate walls shrink behind us. The world ahead yawns open-dark, waiting, ours.

And for one heady moment, I believe it.

That I've won.

The car is waiting just beyond the trees, tucked into the dirt track where the headlights won't give us away. Luca yanks the door open for me with a flourish, that cocky grin plastered across his face.

"Your chariot, princess."

I laugh as I slide into the passenger seat, my heart still thundering from the run. He drops into the driver's side, starts the engine, and then we're tearing down the back roads with the windows rolled low and the night air whipping through my hair.

Every mile feels like another chain falling off.

When we reach the city, the streets buzz with neon and noise, nothing like the suffocating silence of my father's estate. Luca parks sloppy, careless, and pulls me straight into the club like we own the place.

The bass slams into my chest the second we step inside. Lights flash, bodies move in waves, heat and sweat thick in the air.

And then we're in it.

Luca's hands are on me immediately, sliding down my hips, tugging me close. I let him, grinding into the rhythm, my arms looped around his neck. He smells like smoke and cologne, familiar and dangerous.

"God, you look good out here," he murmurs against my ear, voice low and rough.

I laugh, tipping my head back, the sound swallowed by the music. "Better than locked in a cage?"

"Better," he growls, kissing me hard.

The kiss is wild, teeth and heat, his hands roaming, mine pulling him closer. The crowd swallows us-no guards, no father, no Matteo. Just us, reckless and untouchable.

I down a drink he presses into my hand, then another. The alcohol burns sweet and sharp, stoking the fire already crackling through me. We dance harder, faster, pressed so tight it feels indecent, his hands sliding under the hem of my top, mine tugging at the back of his hair.

The world blurs into music, sweat, laughter. My pulse pounds like a drum.

For the first time in years, I feel alive.

By the time we slip into the VIP lounge, tucked away above the pulsing crowd, my skin is slick with sweat, my throat raw from laughing and shouting over the music. Luca slides in beside me instead of across, thigh pressed to mine, arm slung over the back of the seat.

I don't push him away.

The drinks keep coming-shots, cocktails, anything bright and reckless. I down one, then another, the heat in my blood buzzing louder than the bass. Luca's grin is wolfish as he watches me lick salt from my wrist, and the next thing I know his mouth is on mine, hungry and hard.

I let him.

His hands wander, sliding over my thigh, gripping, squeezing like he's memorizing the shape of me. My body arches into it, craving the rush, craving anything that feels like mine. My nails drag lightly down the back of his neck, and his groan vibrates against my lips.

It's messy, hot, everything I shouldn't be doing-

and then his phone buzzes.

Once. Twice. Insistent.

He curses, fumbling it out of his pocket, still half-hard beside me. The screen lights up, and I catch the name before he can tilt it away.

Matteo.

My stomach drops.

For a split second, the whole world shifts-the music fades, the lights blur, my breath snags sharp in my chest.

Luca smirks, cocky, like it's a joke. He answers with that same lazy drawl. "Bianchi. Didn't expect to hear from you tonight."

And then I hear it.

That voice. Calm as glass, smooth and unhurried. Matteo.

"Evening, Luca. Out late?"

Luca chuckles, squeezing my thigh in defiance. "Place is packed, drinks flowing. Can't complain."

There's a pause. Long enough for the weight of it to settle, heavy and suffocating.

Then Matteo's tone shifts-velvet wrapping steel.

"Tell me something, Luca... where are your hands right now?"

The words slice through the air, through me, sharp enough to cut.

Luca freezes. His hand stills on my thigh. His grin falters. His eyes dart to mine, wide, rattled.

And my pulse slams into overdrive.

Because Matteo isn't just calling.

He's here.

Watching.

And we've been caught.