Chapter Eight
Renata
Darkness.
It swallows me whole the second I cross the threshold, a living, breathing thing pressing against my skin like damp velvet. I freeze, gripping the edge of the door, the weight of it closing behind me cutting off the last trace of light.
For a long, stretched-out second, there is nothing. No sound. No movement. Just the pounding of my own heart reverberating in my ears, louder, louder, like a warning drumbeat.
But then—
I feel it.
The subtle, certain awareness that I'm not alone.
A ripple of heat slides down my spine. My breath catches. Somewhere beyond the darkness, someone is watching me. I can feel their gaze like the brush of invisible fingers on the nape of my neck.
My instincts scream to turn around, to run, but before I can even think, a warm glow slices through the black.
A single lamp flicks on in the corner.
The amber light doesn't fully chase the darkness away—it only reveals enough. A pool of golden haze spreads across the room like spilled honey, catching against polished edges of furniture, softening the sharp corners. The rest of the suite remains draped in shadow, secrets tucked away where the light dares not touch.
And that's when I see him.
He's seated at the edge of the massive king-sized bed, a silhouette first. Then the details come into focus, slow and deliberate, like a lens sharpening.
Legs crossed, posture languid yet unnervingly alert. One hand rests lazily on his thigh, the other holds a glass of something amber, expensive-looking, swirling as if he has all the time in the world. The movement is hypnotic—controlled.
My throat tightens.
He shifts, uncrossing his legs, and stands.
The air in the room changes instantly. Heavy. Charged.
He moves like power personified. Confident, unhurried, like a man who knows the weight he carries in every inch of his body. Broad shoulders stretch against a fitted white shirt, the fabric clinging just enough to hint at the strength beneath. His sleeves are rolled halfway up, revealing strong forearms, veins snaking down in subtle, masculine patterns that draw the eye.
He's tall. Solid. The kind of man who fills the space just by existing.
And he's… beautiful.
But not in a soft way. No, this beauty is sharp, sculpted, devastating in its precision. A shadow of darkness lingers around the edges of him, making him seem both alluring and dangerous all at once.
The light catches his face, but only in fragments—the strong line of his jaw, the curve of a smirk that isn't quite a smile, the glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
He looks at me.
The room tilts slightly.
"You're late."
The words are simple, but the way they slice through the silence makes me flinch. His voice is deep, smooth like silk but carrying a subtle steel beneath it, the kind that slides under your skin before you can brace yourself.
I glance instinctively at my wristwatch. One minute past nine. One minute.
But the protest dies in my throat.
Because it's not about the time. It's about him. About the way his presence swallows the room whole and makes the air hum with something I can't quite name.
I stay silent.
He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he turns toward the bedside table. My gaze follows without permission.
The way he moves—it's deliberate, precise. Controlled but with a hint of something untamed simmering beneath. The subtle stretch of fabric over his back as he leans forward reveals the kind of body built not for show but for strength. His fingers—long, elegant, but undeniably strong—curl around the glass before he sets it down with an effortless grace.
When he straightens and glances back, the dim light glints off his face, catching on his mouth. The corner quirks—not quite a smile, more like an unspoken challenge.
"A drink?"
The question hangs in the air, casual, but there's a thread of amusement in it, like he already knows my answer.
I shake my head once. My voice feels caught somewhere between my chest and my throat, and I can't trust it not to tremble.
He seems unsurprised. He just sets the glass down fully, the sound a soft click that echoes in the quiet.
Then his eyes return to me.
And that's when I feel it.
The shift.
Like a predator deciding it's done circling.
His gaze burns into me, slow and assessing, traveling the length of my body in a way that feels both sinful and reverent. A current hums between us, alive, sparking against my skin.
And then, softly but with a command that leaves no room for argument, he says—
"Undress."
My breath catches. A small, involuntary sound escapes me—half gasp, half something I can't name.
For a second, I forget how to move.
Did he really just—?
My heart is a frantic drumbeat now. My mind is screaming a thousand questions: What am I doing? Why am I here? What is this?
But the louder voice—the one buried somewhere deeper—whispers something else entirely. Stay.
I blink, realizing he's watching me with quiet intensity, waiting.
Then—he moves.
One slow button at a time, his fingers undo the front of his shirt. The fabric parts just enough to reveal the barest hint of sun-bronzed skin beneath.
It's deliberate. Torturously slow.
He peels it off his shoulders and lets it fall carelessly over the back of a chair, his movements fluid, seamless. I can't stop staring.
When he turns slightly, I catch the outline of muscles shifting across his chest, the sculpted lines of someone who is effortlessly strong. His trousers hang low on his hips, emphasizing the narrow dip of his waist.
And then—
He pauses.
Looks at me with a raised brow.
"Why are you still clothed?"
Oh, God.
Good question.
My mind scrambles for answers, spinning excuses: Because this is insane. Because I don't even know you. Because I'm not her—
But all that comes out is silence.
My fingers tighten around the purse still hanging loosely from my shoulder. Slowly—hesitantly—I set it down.
I remind myself why I'm here.
This isn't about him.
This is about Renata. About finishing what she started, tying up the loose threads of a life that isn't mine but one I'm now entangled in.
I inhale sharply, steeling myself. My fingers reach for the zipper at the back of my dress, but before I can get a good grip—
Warmth.
A breath against my neck.
A scent—earthy, masculine, dizzying—wraps around me just as a voice murmurs low near my ear:
"Allow me."
I stiffen.
Before I can react, his fingers brush the base of my neck, light and slow as they find the zipper. The simple contact sends a jolt through me so strong it's almost… unbearable.
He slides it down.
Inch by inch.
The metallic whisper of the zipper seems unnaturally loud in the stillness.
When the dress loosens, he steps back without a word. The loss of his warmth is instant, like stepping from sun into shadow.
I'm left to shrug the fabric off my shoulders.
It slips down, pooling soundlessly around my feet.
I step out of it.
And his eyes…
Oh.
The way he looks at me—it's not casual. It's not simple desire. It's something heavier. Something that feels like it could burn through me entirely if I let it.
There's a low sound from him. A growl. A groan. A sound that shouldn't send heat curling low in my stomach, but it does.
He moves.
A step closer.
Another.
Like a predator stalking the moment before the strike.
And suddenly, he's inches away. Close enough for me to feel the faint brush of his breath, the heat radiating off his body.
It's only then that I truly see him.
The color of his eyes—
Green.
And just like that, the world tilts.
Recognition slams into me so hard I actually stumble back, my body reacting before my mind catches up.
I know him.
Somewhere deep, in the hidden fragments of my soul, I know this man.
But, really. I know him. And then it clicks. Green Eyes. At the restaurant.
He catches me easily.
An arm snakes around my waist, steadying me, pulling me flush against him before I can fall.
"Careful there, bellissima."
That voice.
The same voice that once teased me over a glass of wine. The same voice that—
My thoughts scatter.
He leans down, his mouth grazing near my ear as he murmurs, low and velvety, "I'd hate to knock you out before the main event."
His words are a caress wrapped in warning, dipped in dark amusement. I feel them as much as I hear them—low, rich, curling into the sensitive shell of my ear like smoke.
I shouldn't react. I shouldn't. But my body betrays me, shivering as if attuned to some invisible frequency only he commands.
The warmth of him at my back is overwhelming, crowding out the rest of the world. My heart slams against my ribs, frantic and disoriented, while my lungs seem to forget the simple rhythm of breathing.
He doesn't move away.
For a long, charged moment, he just stands there, his presence swallowing me whole. The faint brush of his breath fans across my neck, raising goosebumps. His hand, still curved around my waist, tightens slightly—enough to remind me I'm anchored. Held. Trapped.
"I—" My voice fractures on a single syllable. I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat doesn't budge.
His low chuckle rumbles against my back, deep and amused, vibrating through me like the pluck of a string. "Careful," he murmurs, each word deliberate, slow. "You're trembling."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His lips are close enough now that I can feel the faintest graze of them against the curve of my ear. A shiver rips through me, unbidden.
Then—abruptly—he releases me.
The absence of his touch is jarring, leaving a cold void where his heat lingered. I stumble a step forward, regaining my balance, my breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls.
When I turn, he's already taken a measured step back, studying me like I'm a puzzle he intends to solve.
God.
Those eyes.
Green—bright, sharp, impossibly clear even in the dim light. They pin me in place, strip me down to something rawer than skin. I feel seen in a way that makes my chest ache, like he's peering past the mask, past the surface, into something deeper I'm not ready to confront.
And there it is again—that flicker of recognition. Familiarity that shouldn't exist. It presses at the edges of my mind, a memory I can almost touch but can't hold long enough to name.
Do you know? I want to ask him. Do you recognize me, too?
But my lips stay shut.
He's the first to break the silence, his voice velvet-smooth yet laced with something unreadable. "You're nervous."
I shake my head instinctively, but even I can feel the lie.
His smirk deepens, slow and knowing. "Don't bother denying it. I can feel it from here."
As if to emphasize his point, he prowls closer—not quite touching, but enough that his nearness feels like a magnetic field pulling at the edges of me. Every step he takes is measured, controlled, like a man who enjoys the anticipation more than the destination.
My chest tightens with each inch he closes.
He stops just shy of brushing against me.
For a heartbeat, we stand like that, staring at each other. The tension is unbearable, thick enough to choke on.
Then, with a tilt of his head, he gestures slightly toward the bed behind him, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that curls low in my stomach.
"Perhaps…" He lets the word hang, deliberate. "…a drink will calm those nerves."
It's not really a suggestion.
He reaches for the glass he left on the bedside table, his fingers long and unhurried, movements smooth like liquid. When he turns back to me, he holds it out—not roughly, but not gently either. A quiet test.
I hesitate. My hand trembles when I finally reach for it.
His eyes flick down briefly, catching the faint shake, before lifting back to mine with an almost imperceptible curve of amusement at the corner of his lips.
He knows. God. He knows. It's me. The one who barely held down her drink. Who almost turned into a fire-heat breathing dragon. Almost.
The weight of his gaze doesn't waver as I raise the glass. The burn of amber liquid pools just shy of my lips.
One sip. That's all I allow myself.
But even that feels intimate. Dangerous.
When I lower the glass, a single droplet clings stubbornly to the rim and slides—slowly, deliberately—down toward my fingers.
Before I can brush it away, he catches my hand.
My breath stutters.
His fingers are warm, steady, wrapping around mine as his thumb skims that lone droplet, tracing it in a way that feels entirely too deliberate.
"Spilling already?" His voice is soft, almost a tease, but there's a razor edge beneath it. "We haven't even begun."
I yank my hand back reflexively, the glass trembling in my grasp. "I didn't come here to—"
"To what?" He arches a brow, his expression unreadable, but his tone is deceptively mild. "Be judged? Or to pretend you don't want to be exactly where you are?"
My mouth opens. Closes. No words come out.
He studies me for another long second, then shrugs lightly, stepping back.
"You're free to leave."
The casualness of the statement slices sharper than a shout.
I freeze.
Free to leave. The door is behind me. I could turn. Walk out. Never see him again.
I should. God, I should.
But my feet stay rooted.
Because under the fear, the confusion, the danger, there's something else—pulling. That strange gravity between us, silent and relentless, that makes walking away feel impossible.
When I don't move, his eyes glint with something I can't decipher. Satisfaction? Or something darker?
He tilts his head, voice dipping even lower. "So you'll stay."
It's not a question.
And the worst part?
I nod.
The tiniest, almost imperceptible nod.
His smirk softens into something more dangerous. A predator satisfied its prey won't bolt.
He shifts his weight, leaning back slightly against the edge of the bed. The soft fabric dips under him. He doesn't look away, even for a second, as he sets the untouched drink back down.
Then, in one smooth motion, he spreads his knees slightly, his presence filling the space between us like a command without words.
"Come here."
Two simple words.
My pulse leaps violently.
I stay frozen for half a breath too long.
His eyes darken—not with impatience, but with something heavier. He doesn't repeat himself. He doesn't need to.
Because my body is already moving before my mind catches up.
One slow step. Then another.
The carpet muffles my footsteps, but the sound of my heartbeat is deafening in my ears.
When I reach him, I'm close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body. He doesn't touch me. Not yet.
Instead, his gaze drops. Slow. Lingering. From my face down to the thin lace of my lingerie, tracing every curve with unhurried precision, then back up again until our eyes lock.
His voice is a murmur now, low enough that it feels like it was made just for me. "Do you have any idea how long I've waited for this?"
I blink. "Waited…?"
The question dies unfinished because he leans forward—not enough to kiss, but enough that the air between us feels like it might combust.
"Bellissima…" The word rolls off his tongue like a secret.
My breath catches. The edges of his face blur in my vision, overwhelmed by the sharp awareness of everything else—his scent, his nearness, the inexplicable ache in my chest that makes it feel like I'm losing something I didn't know I had.
"I—"
Before I can speak, his hand lifts.
One finger brushes beneath my chin, tilting my face toward his. The touch is deceptively gentle, but there's power in it—him deciding how close I'll get.
His thumb grazes the corner of my jaw, lingering there.
"Careful," he whispers again, softer this time. Almost tender. "You look like you're about to run."
And maybe I should.
But I don't.