Serafina
I didn’t sleep. Not really. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hand at my hip, the weight of his body pressing close, his voice rasping you’re mine. The worst part? I hadn’t shoved him away. I hadn’t told him to go to hell.
Instead, I’d let him leave me restless and furious, tangled up in my sheets with my pulse pounding like a drum I couldn’t silence.
By morning, Adriano was at the estate’s breakfast table, reading the paper like nothing in the world was falling apart. The smell of espresso clung to the air, steam curling above his cup.
I dropped into the chair across from him, hair still tied up from the night before, clutching a mug of coffee like it was the only thing keeping me alive.
“You look like hell,” he said, eyes flicking up from the headlines.
“Thanks
