Chapter 14: This Isn't You

Chapter 14: This Isn't You

Elio's POV

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I woke in Luca's bed, wrapped in soft sheets that didn't smell like blood or leather.

Only skin.

Only him.

And when I opened my eyes, he wasn't watching me.

He was kneeling on the floor beside me, head bowed like a sinner at confession.

His shirt was gone. His hands curled into fists on his thighs.

He looked like a man waiting for judgment.

I sat up slowly. "Luca?"

He didn't look at me.

"You said the safe word."

"I did."

"And I didn't stop soon enough."

"You did stop."

"I should've felt it coming." His voice was hoarse. "I know your body too well to miss that tremble."

"You didn't miss it," I said softly. "You trusted me to tell you when I reached my limit. That's what the word's for."

His fists clenched tighter.

"I've tortured men who begged less than you did," he whispered. "And I loved doing it. But when I saw you—tied down, crying—and I didn't stop…"

He finally looked up at me.

"And I knew I'd become the very thing I told myself I never would."

I crawled toward the edge of the bed and reached for him.

He didn't resist when I pulled his head into my lap.

"You're not that man," I whispered.

"You don't know what I've done."

"I don't care what you've done," I said, threading my fingers through his hair. "I care about who you are with me."

His voice broke. "And who is that?"

"The boy who once tore up his only coat so I wouldn't freeze."

He choked on a dry laugh. "That boy died a long time ago."

"No. He just put on armor so no one could bury him."

His fingers dug into my thighs. "You're not supposed to see me like this."

"Why?"

"Because I'm the King," he spat. "The monster who runs Milan. The man they kneel for or die beneath."

I tipped his chin up, made him meet my eyes.

"You don't have to be a king with me," I said. "I'd kneel for Luca."

The silence that followed felt thick enough to drown in.

He pressed his forehead to my stomach. "You've always ruined me."

"I always will."

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Later, he lay behind me, one arm wrapped around my waist, holding me too tightly — like I might vanish.

His lips brushed my shoulder.

"I dreamed of you for years," he murmured.

"Even when you became who you are now?"

"Especially then."

I swallowed. "Tell me something real. Something no one else knows."

He was quiet a long time.

Then—

"I cried the first time I killed someone."

I turned slowly in his arms.

"You?"

"I was sixteen. It was clean. A bullet. One shot to the head. He didn't even scream." His jaw twitched. "But I did."

My fingers slid to his cheek.

He leaned into the touch like a man starved.

"That wasn't you," I whispered. "And this—this version of you? This broken, tired version? This isn't you either."

"Then who am I?"

"You're the man who kissed me behind the orphanage church."

His breath caught.

"You're the boy who protected me when I was too scared to speak."

"And now?"

"Now," I said, "you're the man I chose to crawl back to after everything. The one I wear a collar for."

He kissed me then — not like a monster. Not like a king.

But like a man who was still learning how to love gently.

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