Page 94 of Dangerous Vows

He closes the door, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes are darker than usual. Tired.

“Amara—”

“No, really, let’s talk about what matters,” I snap. “I’m locked away like some mafia Rapunzel, and you only show up long enough to make sure I’m fed and bandaged before disappearing like a ghost!”

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even raise his voice.

“I’m keeping you safe.”

“Are you?” My voice cracks. “Because it doesn’t feel like safetywhen I haven’tseenthe man I’m carrying a child for. It feels like abandonment.”

He runs a hand over his jaw, exhaling hard. “You want me here?”

“I wantyou.The real you. The one who used to make me laugh, the one who kissed me like the world would end if he didn’t. Not this… this moody, broody stranger who only shows up to keep me alive.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“I need the man who made love to me like I was everything.”

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. It’s as if I’m talking to a board.

I exhale shakily. “I miss your sarcasm. Your stupid, arrogant smirks. I miss you, Pietro.”

His eyes flash with something I can’t name—pain, maybe. Regret.

Without a word, he walks to me and gently takes my hand.

“Come on,” he says quietly. And for a minute, my heart beats so loudly it thumps in my ears.

I don’t ask where we’re going. Did I get to him? Is he going to move past our differences?

He steps forward and scoops me into his arms. I want to fight him, but I’m too tired. And I hope that he’ll take me to bed and fuck me like no tomorrow.

But he carries me into the bathroom and sets me up. He turns on the faucet to run a bath.

“Pietro…this is not what I asked for.”

“I’ll take care of you.” His voice is low, thick with something unreadable. “This is all I can give.”

He tests the bathwater and adjusts the temperature before dropping a bath bomb into it. Then, he helps me out of my clothes. I’m disappointed because his gentle hands never linger, and he never lets his eyes stray.

This breaks me a little more.

Because I want him tolook.

Totouch.

Towant.

But he’s too careful, and he moves like a robot.

He lowers me into the warm water, his fingers brushing my skin like I might shatter.

“I’m not made of glass,” I murmur.

He kneels beside the tub. “No. You’re made of fire.”

Then why does it feel like he’s afraid of being burned?

---