Luca’s gaze moved slow—from her face to the wet hem of her nightgown, to the dark stain spreading across the carpet, to the empty glass on its side. He didn't look at the door Matteo had vanished through. He didn't need to. His hand found her chin, thumb hooking under her jaw, tilting her face into the amber lamplight. She didn't resist. Couldn't. His thumb dragged across her throat, slow and deliberate, pressing exactly where Matteo's breath had been—still warm, still tingling, still hers in a way that felt like betrayal.
She expected rage. Expected his grip to tighten, his voice to drop, the cold violence she'd heard rumors of in the kitchen whisper network. But his eyes didn't harden. They darkened—something slower, deeper, a shade of hunger she hadn't seen before. His thumb brushed the same spot again, feeling the heat she couldn't hide.
"You wanted him to touch you."
Not a question. Not an accusation. A statement delivered flat, like a judge reading a verdict she already knew. His thumb pressed once, firm, against her pulse. She felt it jump beneath his skin, a confession her body made before her mouth could lie.
"I—" The word stuck. She swallowed. His thumb still pressed her throat, not hard enough to hurt, hard enough to remind her he was there. "He came to check the lights."
"The lights." His voice didn't change. "In your bedroom. At midnight."
She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, felt the lie crumble before she'd finished speaking it. His hand left her chin, dropped to her shoulder, traced the damp silk clinging to her collarbone. Her breath caught. His fingers found the fabric near her neck, pinched it, lifted it away from her skin.
"This is wet." A statement. "From the glass."
She nodded, a small jerky motion. His fingers released the silk, let it fall back against her skin, cold and clinging. He didn't step back. He stood close enough that she could smell him—cigar smoke, expensive cologne, something sharp and metallic beneath. His hand moved to her shoulder again, palm flat, radiating heat through the damp fabric.
"You're still shaking."
Not a question. She couldn't tell if it was concern or cold observation. His eyes held hers, gray and unreadable, and she felt the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on her chest. She wanted to look away. Couldn't. His thumb traced her collarbone once, a mirror of their wedding night, and the memory made her stomach tighten.
"I told him to leave." Her voice came out thin, raw, the same voice she'd had on their wedding night. "He was going to—I told him—"
"You told him." Luca's hand stilled. "And he listened."
His voice held something she couldn't name. Not approval. Not anger. Something in between that made her skin prickle. His thumb pressed once more against her collarbone—a mark, a brand, a reminder of whose name she carried—and then he let his hand fall.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you will join me for breakfast."
He turned. His footsteps crossed the wet carpet, paused at the threshold. She saw his silhouette fill the doorway, dark against the hall light, and for a moment she thought he would say something else. He didn't. The door clicked shut behind him, and she was alone again, her throat still burning where two different men had touched her in the same hour.
Her fingers pressed against her throat—right where both men had touched her in the same hour. Matteo's breath, warm and uneven. Luca's thumb, deliberate and claiming. She pressed harder, as if she could feel them both at once, as if she could understand what it meant that they'd left their marks on the same patch of skin.
The wet hem of her nightgown clung to her thighs as she walked to the vanity. Her reflection stared back from the amber-lit glass—flushed cheeks, swollen lips she hadn't noticed biting, eyes too bright, too wide. She looked like someone who'd been caught. She looked like someone who'd wanted to be.
She touched the spot again, slower this time. The skin was tender, raw, as if Luca's thumb had been a brand. She remembered the weight of it, the way he'd pressed until her pulse jumped beneath him, the way he'd held there long enough to prove he could. He hadn't been angry. He'd been something worse. He'd been curious.
The single lamp cast long shadows across the mahogany headboard, the silk sheets still cool from Matteo's presence. She could still smell him—sweat and something clean, like soap and heat. She could still feel his hand on her wrist, his voice in her ear, the way he'd said her name like it was a secret he wasn't supposed to keep.
She looked down at her hands. They were still trembling.
Luca hadn't asked what Matteo wanted. He hadn't asked why she'd let him cross the threshold, why her nightgown was wet, why her pulse had been racing when he walked in. He'd just touched her, claimed the same spot, and left. As if he'd already known. As if he'd been watching the whole time.
The thought sent a chill down her spine that wasn't entirely fear.
She wrapped her arms around herself, the damp silk cold against her skin. The room was too quiet now—no footsteps in the hallway, no sound from the rest of the house. Just her breathing, too fast, and the soft hum of the lamp, and the ghost of two men pressed into her throat like fingerprints.
In the mirror, her hand drifted back to her collarbone. She traced the line Luca's thumb had followed, the same path he'd traced on their wedding night. A claim. A brand. A reminder of whose name she carried.
But underneath, where she pressed harder, she could still feel the warmth of Matteo's breath. Still hear the way he'd whispered her name, not "Mrs. Moretti," just Emilia, like she was a person instead of a debt.
She pressed her palm flat against her throat and held it there, feeling the double heat, the double claim, the double hunger she didn't understand and couldn't name.