Page 21 of Luca
She thinks I didn’t notice her watching me today in the Pantheon. She’s wrong.
The temple has a way of making a man feel small, and I’ve spent most of my life making damn sure I’m the biggest thing in any room. But under that dome, I saw her looking at me instead of the ceiling.
On the street afterward, I kept my hand at the small of her back. Not because she needed guiding through the crowd, but because I wanted to feel her there.
The gelato was a test. My thumb to her lip was another. She didn’t flinch, didn’t blush like an untouched bride. She looked at me like she might do something reckless with her mouth right there in the fucking street. I filed that thought away for later.
The pizza on the steps was another test. When she burned her fingers, let me take the slice, and then feed it backto her. She leaned in close to me without hesitation. That told me plenty.
And then the fountain.
I saw the pickpocket before she did, and was already trying to alert Paolo to grab the girl when my wife decided to spring. She didn’t freeze, didn’t scream for help.
Fuck, no.
She ran like someone who’s done it many times before. Shoulder turns, cuts through the crowd, anticipating the target’s moves. Hell, I’ve had soldiers who couldn’t track a mark that clean. She knew where the girl was headed and got there first. Then she pinned the kid down, yelled at her in slang you don’t learn in finishing school, and didn’t blink at the knife.
Something about the knife still bothers me.
I’ve seen men twice her size back off when they see a switchblade. She didn’t even slow down. Which means she didn’t miss it—she assessed it. That’s muscle memory. Not a move learned in an eight-hour self-defense class.
At the café, I didn’t talk at first. She drank her water like she really needed it. And every swallow, every flicker of her pulse under that delicate skin, made me think about last night. Her body under me, hands fisting in the sheets.
I started asking questions about self-defense classes. A conveniently closed gym. She lied smoothly, but there’s no doubt she lied.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s the rhythm of bullshit.
Then I put my hand over hers. Felt her freeze, but not from fear. Heat, maybe. Defiance. I let my thumb drag over the inside of her wrist to feel her pulse. Too fast to be calm, too steady to be scared.
She tried to make it all about the phone. I tried to make it all about her safety and the knife. Because it was never about either of those things.
The truth?
I liked watching her run. I liked watching her take the girl down.
It fucking turned me on.
But I can’t decide if that’s because she’s dangerous… or because she’s mine.
I told her to stay close. Not a suggestion. A rule I mean for her to follow.
And when she said she’d still break fingers if someone grabbed her ass, I almost smiled.
Almost.
Because I believe her. And because the thought of her defending herself makes something low in my gut tighten in a way it shouldn’t.
The wine came and she drank too much of it in one go, as if she needed the burn to hold her together. And I let her drink it, because loose tongues tell truths.
I kept my knee against hers under the table the whole time. I wanted to see if she’d pull away. She didn’t. She stayed, anchored there like maybe she liked it.
By the time Paolo came back with word of a quieter table, I’d already decided, she’s hiding something big.
But she’s also the most interesting thing I’ve touched in years.
When I stood from the table, I offered her my hand. She took it without hesitation and her palm fit perfectly against mine.
The more I think about yesterday, the more questions I have. And in my line of work, too many questions about someone close to you is never a good thing.
