CLAIMED BY MY HUSBAND'S KILLER

Shadows and Shampoo

I woke up gasping like I’d been drowning.

The sheets were too soft. The pillow smelled like cedar and something darker, something that wasn’t Lorenzo. For a second I forgot where I was, and then it all slammed back into me, the marble floor, the blood soaking through my dress, Rafael’s calm voice saying *become my wife* like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. My stomach twisted so hard I had to sit up and press my hands over my face.

Day one in the cage.

Or day whatever the hell it was. Time felt slippery here.

I swung my legs out of the bed and just sat there in the oversized t-shirt someone had left for me. My own clothes were in the closet, perfectly organized like some creepy dollhouse version of my life. I hated how neatly they’d done it. Like they’d studied me.

The house was quiet in that heavy way big places get when nobody’s supposed to make noise. I pulled on some leggings and a sweater and stepped into the hallway barefoot. The floor was warm under my feet. Heated tiles or some s**t.

I started walking.

Not like I had a plan. Just… moving. If I kept moving maybe I wouldn’t think too hard about the fact that my husband was dead and I was living in his killer’s mansion like some f****d-up fairy tale.

Downstairs the light was better. Morning sun poured through these massive windows that went all the way up to the ceiling. I found the library first, the one I’d glimpsed yesterday. Floor to ceiling books, real ones with cracked spines and little notes sticking out. I ran my finger along a shelf and pulled out a random novel. The pages were soft from being read over and over. Someone in this house actually read. That surprised me more than it should have.

I put it back and kept wandering.

The dining room looked like it hosted wars more than dinners. Long table, chairs that didn’t all match, faint scars on the wood like knives had been slammed down or glasses broken in anger. I could picture Rafael at the head, calm as ever, while men around him bled tension.

My bare feet carried me to the kitchen next.

It smelled like heaven. Coffee, fresh bread, herbs, garlic, something savory that made my empty stomach growl even though I didn’t want to eat. A woman was humming while she chopped vegetables. She was short, round-faced, maybe fifty, with her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun and flour on her apron.

She looked up when I hesitated in the doorway and her face broke into a warm smile that actually reached her eyes. That felt dangerous too.

“You must be Alessia,” she said in Italian-accented English. “I’m Giulia. Sit, sit. You look like you need coffee more than oxygen.”

I didn’t know what to do with kindness right now, but my body moved anyway. I slid onto one of the stools at the big marble island. She poured me a mug without asking how I took it and somehow got it exactly right, strong, little bit of cream, no sugar.

“How did you—”

“I ask questions,” she said with a wink. “And I pay attention. You like it strong but not bitter. Like life, eh?”

I almost laughed. It came out more like a broken sound. She didn’t push. She Just kept moving around the kitchen, efficient and calm, like having the widow of a dead traitor in her space was totally normal.

“You hungry? I make eggs. Or there’s fresh bread from this morning. Rafael likes when I bake.”

The mention of his name made my shoulders tighten. Giulia noticed but pretended she didn’t.

“He’s not here much during the day,” she said casually, cracking eggs into a pan. “Always moving. Always watching everything. But he notices the small things. Like how you drink your coffee.”

I sipped it slowly, letting the heat burn my tongue a little. Pain felt grounding.

While the eggs sizzled, I asked her how long she’d worked here. Ten years, she said. Raised two kids who now lived in the city. Husband passed away five years ago. She said it simply, without drama, the way people do when grief has settled into bone instead of bleeding fresh.

“I’m sorry,” I muttered.

She shrugged. “Life takes. Sometimes it gives back in strange ways.” Her eyes flicked to me for a second. “You’ll see.”

I didn’t know what to say to that so I just ate when she put the plate in front of me. The food was stupidly good. Perfectly seasoned, buttery, the kind of breakfast that makes you feel taken care of. That made me angry and grateful at the same time. I hated how my body relaxed even a fraction.

After breakfast I kept exploring.

The gardens outside were insane. Manicured hedges, fountains, flowers that probably had their own full-time gardener. I walked the paths until my feet hurt, always aware of the low wall at the edge and the men who weren’t quite hiding that they were watching me. Not in a creepy way. In a *you belong to the boss now* way.

I found the courtyard on the north side. Stone tiles, a dry fountain with some dead leaves in it, two guards at the far end who nodded politely when I looked at them. Polite killers. Great.

Everywhere I went, I felt him.

Rafael.

Not right there, but… around. Like the house itself was breathing with his presence. I’d catch a door closing down a hallway just as I turned. Or hear low voices and know one of them was his deep, controlled tone that did things to my stomach I refused to name.

I tried not to think about the locked door in the east corridor. Tried not to remember the way he’d said yet like it was already decided. Like I was already decided.

By late afternoon I was exhausted. Not from walking. From feeling everything at once. Grief. Anger. This stupid low hum under my skin whenever I thought about him watching me. I went back to my room and tried to read one of my own books but the words kept swimming.

Evening came slow and heavy.

I avoided dinner. Told Cara I wasn’t hungry. She brought a tray anyway of soup, bread and wine. I ate half of it standing up by the window, staring out at the dark gardens.

Then I took the longest shower of my life.

The bathroom was ridiculous. Rain shower head, marble everywhere, my exact shampoo and body wash lined up like little soldiers. I stood under the hot water until my skin went red. Let it beat on my shoulders, my neck, my face.

That’s when it all cracked open.

I started crying. Not cute little tears. Ugly, gasping sobs that came from somewhere deep and animal. For Lorenzo. For the version of him I thought I married. For the life I lost. For the fact that I was here, naked in another man’s house, with another man’s scent somehow clinging to everything.

My hand slid down before I could stop it.

Between my legs, fingers clumsy and desperate. I leaned my forehead against the cool tile and touched myself thinking about things I shouldn’t. The way Rafael’s hands had felt on my shoulders last night. The low rumble of his voice saying 'yet'. How tall he was. How controlled. How he looked at me like he already knew every dirty secret I had.

I came fast. Too fast. A sharp, shameful little orgasm that left me shaking.

Then the guilt hit like a truck.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the shower floor, water pouring over me, and cried harder. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to no one. To Lorenzo. To myself. “God, what the f**k is wrong with me?”

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the water to go lukewarm.

When I finally turned it off and stepped out, wrapping a thick towel around myself, I felt hollowed out. Eyes swollen. Skin pruned. I wiped the fog off the mirror and stared at the stranger looking back.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft sound right outside the bathroom door. Not quite a knock. More like someone shifting their weight. Breathing.

I froze.

“Rafael?” My voice came out small and cracked.

No answer.

But I knew he was there. He’d heard me crying. Maybe even heard the desperate little sounds I made when I touched myself thinking about him. Heat flooded my face, shame so deep it made me dizzy.

I waited for the door to open. For him to come in and look at me with those knowing eyes. Part of me wanted him to. The sick, broken part.

But he didn’t.

After a long minute I heard his footsteps move away down the hall.nLeaving me alone with my mess.

I sank onto the edge of the tub and pressed the towel against my face.

He’d heard everything.

And he’d walked away.

That somehow felt worse than if he’d come in and taken what his eyes always promised.

I crawled into bed still damp, hair wet, body aching with confusion and leftover heat and crushing guilt. The sheets smelled like him again. I buried my face in the pillow and tried not to think about how safe that scent was starting to feel.

Outside my door, the house settled into silence.

But I knew he was still watching. Somewhere.

Always watching.

And the worst part? Some traitorous piece of me was starting to like it.

That night, I tossed and turned for hours.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw Lorenzo folding on the floor. Then the image would shift Rafael crouching beside him, but instead of blood it was me on the ground, and his hands were on me, and I wasn’t scared. I was wet. Needy. Begging.

I woke up from one of those dreams slick between my thighs and so angry at myself I wanted to scream.

The clock said it was a little after three.

I got up and paced the room. Touched my books. Opened the closet and stared at my clothes hanging there like they belonged. They didn’t. None of this did.

Eventually I went back to the window and looked out at the gardens. Moonlight made everything look silver and unreal. One of the guards was walking the perimeter, slow and steady. Part of me wondered what would happen if I just ran. Barefoot into the night. Would they shoot me? Would Rafael chase me himself?

Would he catch me and pin me down and—

I squeezed my eyes shut.

*Stop.*

But my body didn’t listen. My n*****s tightened against the t-shirt. I crossed my arms tight and tried to breathe through it.

This was insane. Three days ago I was married. Happy, or at least I thought I was. Now I was getting wet thinking about the man who ended that life with one calm bullet.

I hated myself.

I hated how alive I felt for the first time in years.

Around four I finally fell into a restless sleep curled up in the big chair by the window instead of the bed. When I woke again the sun was coming up and there was a fresh cup of coffee on the nightstand.

Still hot.

He’d been here while I slept.

I picked up the mug with shaking hands and took a sip.

Perfect. Exactly how I liked it.

The guilt came rushing back, but underneath it, something smaller and scarier flickered to life.

Curiosity.

And want.

God help me.