Page 36 of His Ruthless Claim

The words stick in my throat. Emotions are weakness. Caring gets people killed. I learned that at eight years old, watching my mother bleed out beside me.

But something in Skye's steady gaze cracks the ice I've spent two decades building. "When I can't stop thinking about you. When the thought of anything happening to you makes me-" I break off, unfamiliar with this loss of control.

"Makes you feel something?" Her voice softens, knowing.

"Yes." The admission costs me, but her smile is worth it.

"Okay." She squeezes my hand. "I'll stay with you. But only because that expression actually made you look human for a second."

18

SKYE

The gates part with a soft whir, revealing a winding driveway that leads to what can only be described as an estate. Luca's house looms ahead - a modern masterpiece of glass and stone that somehow manages to look both inviting and fortified. The Chicago skyline glitters in the distance, close enough to see but far enough to feel isolated from the chaos.

My overnight bag feels inadequate as Luca guides me inside with a hand pressed against my lower back. His touch burns through my silk blouse.

"Kitchen." He gestures to our right, where sleek appliances gleam under recessed lighting. "Living room." The space opens to soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that showcase the manicured grounds.

I trail behind him up curved stairs, taking in the minimal décor that probably costs more than my boutique makes in a year. Everything is precise, controlled - just like him.

"Guest rooms." He points down one hallway without stopping.

"And where am I staying?"

He leads me to double doors at the end of another hall, pushing them open to reveal a massive bedroom. Dark wood floors stretch beneath a California king bed dressed in charcoal gray linens. More windows frame a private balcony.

"This is your room?" My voice rises an octave.

"Our room." His ice-blue eyes lock onto mine, challenging me to argue. "I'm not getting up every hour to check on you in another part of the house."

"Bold of you to assume I need checking on." I arch an eyebrow, but my heart pounds. The bedroom radiates his presence - from the precise hospital corners of the bed to the row of perfectly aligned watches on the dresser.

"You've already proven you don't make the best decisions regarding your safety." His lips quirk, the closest thing to a smile I've seen from him. "This isn't up for debate."

I could fight it. Should fight it. But in truth, I don't want to. I crave his touch every time he's near, and he is so fucking fine that I can't bring myself to put distance between us. The thought of being alone in this massive house holds zero appeal.

"Fine." I drop my bag by the foot of his bed. "But I'm taking the right side."

His eyes darken a fraction. "That's my side."

Well, that makes me double down. "Not anymore." I flash him my sweetest smile.

The first fewdays fall into an oddly domestic rhythm. When I'm home, I spend most of my time stealing glances at Luca as he paces his office. The glass walls give me a perfect view of him in action - jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, that expensive watch catching the light as he gestures during calls.

His voice carries through the house, switching between English and Italian. The latter sends shivers down my spine,especially when his tone drops to that dangerous register that means someone's about to have a very bad day.

"No, that's not acceptable." His words slice through the air. "Either the shipment arrives tonight, or we have a different conversation tomorrow."

The threat hangs there, delivered without heat or anger. That's what makes him terrifying - the complete lack of emotion when discussing violence.

And then there’s the little things. Like how I find every article of clothing he bought from me in his closet, not giving to business associates. And somehow I never noticed they were all my size. He told me they were my favorites so he bought them for me. I didn’t point out that he hadn’t known I’d come live here - because I suspect that Luca has been planning this for a while.

Maybe it shouldn’t, but the gesture touched me. Warmed me. I couldn’t do anything but smile as I looked at the collection he bought for me.

At night, though, something shifts. I catch him watching me over dinner - because he insists on us having dinner together - his eyes tracking my movements as I reach for my wine glass or brush hair from my face. He never initiates conversation, but his attention feels like a physical weight.

It's the little things that fascinate me - how he adjusts his mother's watch exactly three times before bed, the way his jaw ticks when I deliberately take his side of the bed, how he maintains exactly six inches of space between us despite sharing the mattress.

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