Page 69 of Cage the Storm
The gala continues around us, champagne flowing, laughter threading through conversations carefully measured for public ears. My father is still here. Bianca is somewhere behind us, licking wounds she never thought she’d have to nurse. And expectation still hangs heavy in the air.
Exhaustion suddenly hits me, and it’s all I can do to keep upright. “Mateo, could you bring the car around? I think it’s time to call it a night. Luna needs her rest.” I never complained, but he read my body language since he’s so attuned to me lately.
“You got it, Boss.” I want to argue, but I don’t have it in me because I’m too damn tired. As Mateo walks away, I let Nicoguide me up the stairs. I barely hear the handful of guests who say goodnight as his arm tightens around me.
I’ve no idea if this lethargy is related to my pregnancy or due to tonight’s events. My father was inevitable, but Bianca just pushed me to my limit. Coming here tonight was a big mistake, but the taste of freedom, albeit short-lived, was too tempting to deny.
As Mateo pulls up to the curb, Nico ushers me inside and slides in next to me. Buckling me in as Mateo shuts the door. Nico’s fingers drum against the leather seat, a staccato rhythm that matches the adrenaline still humming in my veins. The gala’s outdoor lighting slowly fades behind us, but the game never truly ends.
“You didn’t kill him,” I say, finding my second wind.
His gaze cuts to mine. “You sound disappointed.” I lean back, watching the streetlights streak his profile.
“Curious, perhaps.”
“You stood there, all ice and elegance, and didn’t shrink when he threatened you. Not once.”
“Flattery?” I chuckle. “Careful. Someone might think you’ve gone soft.”
The car slows at a red light, and he slips his hand in mine. Nico will never admit he has a soft side, but since I told him I was pregnant, he’s different. At least with me, that is. “Soft’s not the word I’d use.” I don’t miss his play on words.
I press my forehead to the window, the cool glass refreshing against my feverish skin. His thumb is tracing idle circles on my wrist when a cramp takes my breath away.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“It’s nothing.”
“Luna.”
I close my eyes. “The doctor said stress isn’t ideal.”
His curse is a snarl. “You should’ve told me.”
“And let you bench me for being pregnant? Never.” The city hums around us, but all I see is him—dangerous, and utterly beautiful. “This is my fight too. Ours.”
He doesn’t answer, just pulls me against his chest, and his heartbeat lulls me to sleep.
All of a sudden, his scent wraps around me, and strong arms slide under me, one bracing my back, the other hooking beneath my knees. I stiffen once I realize I’m being carried into the house. “Put me down.”
“Make me,” he chuckles, the sound vibrating against my skin.
I should fight him. But the warmth of his chest seeps through my dress, and my resolve fractures. My head falls against his shoulder, too exhausted to hide my surrender.
He carries me up the steps, past the expressionless guards. Their eyes flick away, out of respect, and if they know what’s best for them. Nico’s heartbeat thrums against my ear, soothing and relentless.
The foyer is too bright, and I flinch, turning my face into his neck. He instantly adjusts his hold, shielding me from the light.
“I’m not fragile,” I mutter into his skin. He throws his head back and laughs, a deep, rich sound that fills my heart.
Nico sets me down on the edge of the bed, his hands curve around my waist as if I’ll fall apart if he lets go. I don’t. But only because pride alone can’t prop up the exhaustion crushing me. My head throbs, my feet ache, and the baby feels like a stone lodged beneath my ribs. I don’t fight when he kneels to slip off my heels. The cool floor kisses my bare feet, a small relief.
“Stand up for a minute,” he murmurs, and when he holds out his hand, I take it. Too tired to argue. I close my eyes as his fingers graze the zipper at my spine. The dress parts slowly, the air biting my exposed skin. I shiver.
“Cold?”
“No.” Lie. Everything feels raw and exposed when he’s touching me.
He doesn’t call me out. His hands are gently peeling the fabric from my shoulders, sliding the straps down my arms. When he falters, I realize I’ve stopped breathing.
