Sleep had abandoned her.
The room was dark, quiet in a way that felt almost wrong, as though even the shadows were holding their breath. Elena lay on her side, staring at the ceiling, mind racing, heart hammering in a rhythm she barely recognized. She had tried—tried to read, to distract herself, to lose herself in the mundane routines of the estate—but nothing could drown out the memory of the library, the kiss, the brush of his hand that lingered far longer than it should have.
His presence still clung to her, stubborn and persistent, embedding itself in her skin, her thoughts, her very pulse. A fire she couldn't extinguish burned quietly, insistently. Every shadow in the room seemed to mimic him—the curve of his shoulders, the sharpness of his jaw, the heat in his gaze that left her breathless.
She tried to convince herself: it's just desire. Dangerous. Unwise. Temporary.
But the truth gnawed at her relentlessly.
She wanted him.
Not only the kiss, not only the lingering heat whenever he was near, but all of him—the danger, the control, the chaos he stirred in her, and the power he wielded without hesitation. The thought made her pulse thrum in places she hadn't thought possible, leaving her simultaneously terrified and exhilarated.
A faint sound made her start. The door opened silently, and her heart leapt, betraying the careful control she had fought to maintain.
Luca stepped into the room. No announcement. No hesitation. Just him.
He didn't smile. He didn't speak. He simply leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watched her. His gaze was sharp, measuring, but not unkind. It was magnetic. Commanding. Dangerous.
"You're awake," he said softly, his voice slicing through the thick, still air.
"I…can't sleep," she admitted, barely above a whisper, aware that her heartbeat might be audible.
He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, his presence pressing in on her like the gravity of the estate itself. "Neither can I," he said, voice low, taut with something she couldn't yet name.
They stood there, a charged silence between them, each waiting for the other to break the tension that hummed in the space. Every glance, every subtle movement, carried weight. Every exhale seemed to echo with unspoken desire.
"I shouldn't be here," he murmured, a dangerous lilt in his voice that made her pulse spike again.
Elena's breath caught. "You…don't have to be."
"I want to be," he replied, the steel in his tone unmistakable. "Do you understand what that means?"
"Yes," she whispered, throat tight, chest heaving. "I do."
The room seemed smaller, hotter, the shadows closer. Desire lingered in every flicker of his eyes, every subtle shift in his stance, every charged silence that drew her toward him like a magnet she dared not resist.
"You're dangerous," she said softly, voice trembling despite herself. "For both of us."
"I know," he admitted. "And yet…"
He let the words hang, heavy and deliberate.
Her hands trembled slightly at her sides. "And yet…?" she pressed, needing to name it, to understand it, to anchor herself even as her body betrayed her.
He didn't answer with words. His presence alone spoke it: he wanted her. He wanted this tension, this battle between resistance and surrender, this quiet war they both knew was already lost.
Elena's body ached—not from fear, not from exhaustion, but from the sleepless want that had rooted itself in her chest, radiating outward, demanding attention, recognition, surrender. She remained upright, eyes locked on his, fighting against the pull even as every nerve in her body screamed in defiance of her restraint.
Sleep would not come tonight.
Not because of the city beyond the walls, not because of the threats lurking in the shadows, but because of him.
Luca Moretti.
And the sleepless want he had ignited, and that now thrummed unrelenting in her heart.