Page 38 of Charming Villain

But Gianna gives me a tiny nod. My heart lurches as I gently peel away my clothes to join her. Her eyes never drift from my face. They never sink to the prominent scar on my chest or dip to my waist, where there is no longer evidence of my arousal. Her eyes glisten with tears still, but she doesn’t speak. I step under the warm cascade of water first, tugging her inside, and let the spray soak us both.

The heat of the water stings my skin like tiny needles of redemption; it’s a welcome reminder of something real and cleansing. She shivers as the steam envelops us, and I guide her closer to the jets. As she presses against me, I can feel her heartbeat through her skin. But this time, there’s no aggression in my touch—just a desperate apology conveyed through gentle fingertips.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. Here, beneath the stream of hot water, I can admit that I was wrong. My hands glide over her shoulders, washing away the evidence of my harshness. The soap smells of sandalwood, and I use it to clean her of my possessive touch. “I went too far.” Each sweep of my hands across her skin feels like an unspoken plea for forgiveness, and I take my time, ensuring every motion speaks of tenderness rather than demand.

Gianna’s eyes are downcast, rivulets of water sliding across her cheeks and neck. I catch a glimpse of bruised skin where my grip was too tight. It appears as a small shadow on her thigh, and it makes my stomach churn with regret. How am I the same manwhobandaged her burn and let her keep a stray kitten because they both looked like they needed each other? What kind of monster am I that I can make her smile one minute and cry the next?

She doesn’t speak; she just tilts her face up to the water, letting it wash the tears away. My chest aches with each ragged breath she takes. Carefully, I run soapy fingers over her arms and her back in silent apology. She shudders, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Gianna,” I murmur her name like a confession. When she looks at me, tears mixing with droplets on her lashes, guilt stabs me in the stomach. “I— I didn’t mean—” I falter.What did I not mean?To hurt her? To show her how lost I am?

She presses her lips together, and then slowly, she reaches out to touch my chest. Her fingers graze over the scar from her father. I flinch, not from pain but from the overwhelming sense of vulnerability it triggers. It peels back every layer of armor I’ve built around myself.

My throat is so tight I can barely breathe. I let my hand slide to her bandaged palm, the one she burned cooking dinner for me. The bandage is damp, and I frown as I realize it will need rewrapping.

I curse under my breath, turning off the shower with a quick twist of the handle, the metal squeaking in protest. Silence descends, broken only by the rhythmic drip of water from the faucet. Gianna opens her mouth as if to speak, but no words come out

I gather a towel, wrapping it around her with unsteady hands. She flinches again, minutely this time. It’s like a knife to my gut, but I deserve it. I deserve worse than quiet fear and accusation in her eyes. Even in my darkest fantasies of revenge, when I let myself imagine a thousand different ways this could play out, I never pictured her looking at me like this. Or maybe I never realized how it would feel if she did, that it would hollow me from the inside out.

“Gianna.” I know what I need to do, and the words stick in my throat because they don’t sound like they’re enough. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, though the phrase feels hollow and inadequate. I brush a wet strand of hair behind her ear, trying to ignore how she tenses at my touch. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I add, the admission burning my throat like acid. “I know I said I did before, but it’s not you I’m mad at. Not really.”

She inhales shakily, her breath catching slightly in her throat. Her mouth opens, but then she closes it with a subtle shake of her head as if the words she wants to say are too heavy to voice. But finally, after several long moments, Gianna leans her forehead against my chest. The contact is so tentative it rips my heart in two. I let the towel slip around her shoulders, hugging her to me gently but careful not to trap her. Her body shakes, but whether it’s from cold or lingering shock, I can’t tell. I hold her anyway, feeling each breath, hoping to steady her—hoping that maybe it’ll steadyus.

My mind races with everything I should say but can’t.I’m sorry for losing it, for punishing you for my indecision, for wanting you so badly I can’t see straight.The weight of her against me is the only thing keeping me from imploding. Words pile up in my throat like shards of glass—explanations, apologies, desperate confessions—but I swallow them all down, afraid that speaking will shatter what’s left between us.

After a few moments of clinging to each other in the humid silence, I say, “I’ll help you wrap your hand again.” She nods, letting me lead her toward the sink. My fingers tremble as I open the medicine cabinet and rummage for fresh gauze. I focus on what I can control: blotting the moisture from her palm, applying ointment, wrapping the gauze until her burn is secured. Each pass of the bandage feels like atonement for the bruises I left on her soul.

When I’m done, Gianna flexes her fingers experimentally. Our eyes meet, and for a split second, a thread of something passes between us. It’s fragile, made up of half-whispered apologies and the memory of how good we could be if I didn’t keep hurting her.

She draws the towel tighter around herself and steps back. I swallow, and it erases all the words I want to say:I’m sorry. I’m broken. I don’t know how to want you without punishing you for it.Instead, I offer a stiff nod, retreating from the bathroom so she can dress. The reality of what just transpired weighs heavily on me.I wanted to re-establish dominance. Now, I feel more lost than ever.

In the hallway, I catch sight of Cupcake peeking around the corner with wide, curious eyes. Great.The tiny cat hisses at me, then trots over as if torn between wanting affection and wanting to hate me. I rub a hand over my face as exhaustion seeps into my bones.I get it, Cupcake, that’s how Gianna feels, too.

Each time I cross another line with her, I expect to feel triumphant. But all I ever feel is dread. The lines between punishment, pleasure, and possession have never been so dangerously blurred. And if I can’t find a way to navigate this blurriness, it might destroy us both.

And despite the guilt and the shame and the fear choking me, one undeniable truth remains:I can’t let her go.

Chapter22

Gianna

I’m running away. I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back.

I whisper it in my mind like a vow—words I don’t dare say aloud. My body still aches from last night, muscles trembling in the aftermath of how far Luciano pushed me, keeping me at the edge of pleasure until I thought my heart might burst. Every movement I make twinges with the memory of his touch, his breath, his anger, the way his fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave marks. But I can’t let that overshadow what I’ve decided. I refuse to let him destroy me.

I don’t think Luciano’s awake yet. The sunlight bleeds through the curtains, turning the bedroom’s walls a hazy gold. The room smells like him—clean linen and expensive cologne. I lie on the thin mattress in the corner, knees drawn up against my chest, trying to make myself as small as possible. My body feels bruised and sore, a reminder of his passionate violence. My limbs protest when I stretch, tendons tight, joints stiff from being held in position for too long. I wonder if today will be the day he takes it too far.

A rustle of expensive sheets behind me tells me that my alone time has ended. Luciano’s voice breaks the morning hush like a hammer through glass. “Gianna.” I tense. I half expect to be ordered to the kitchen or told to make breakfast. Instead, there’s a pause, and then something unexpectedly gentle creeps into his tone that makes me flinch. “From now on, you should sleep in my bed, not on the floor.”

My stomach clenches into a tight knot of dread and anticipation. I roll over slowly, half expecting to meet a cold, calculated stare, but his dark eyes flicker with what looks like remorse and guilt. And in that moment, I realize I need to play along, to let him think he’s winning whatever twisted game this is. Because more than anything else, it’s important to Luciano that he sees himself as the victor, the benevolent master showing kindness to his possession.

So I don’t argue. I nod quietly, pressing my lips together to hide a swirl of conflicting emotions. I can’t let him see the flash of relief and the tinge of horror I feel at the idea of sharing a bed with him. If I’m to make him trust me, I need to let him claim ground. So I gather the tattered remains of my courage and stand up, ignoring the ache in my hips. He watches me with an unreadable gaze, as if waiting for me to protest.

But I don’t pull away when he slides off the bed and comes near. His hand drifts to my waist, tentative contact that almost feels gentle. “You’re to be my wife, Gianna,” he mumbles. “I want to take care of you.”

For a split second, I’m too stunned to do anything except lean into him. My mind screams at me to push him away, but my body responds to his warmth instinctively. My face is close to his chest, and I smell the faint spice of his soap mingled with something earthy and masculine. I let him hold me because it’s what he wants, because I have to let him think he’s broken me.

Luciano exhales as though my compliance is a benediction. Then he steps away, casting a quick glance at the clock. “I need to get ready for a meeting with my brother,” he mutters. “You can—well.” He stops short, brow furrowed as he tries to get the words out. “We’ll talk more later.”

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