Fire in His Hands

Emilia should've stepped back.

But instead, she stood frozen, her breath shallow, her pulse hammering in her throat as Alessandro's hand hovered just at her waist. Not possessive. Not forceful.

Just… there.

And somehow that was worse.

"I should hate you," she whispered.

He leaned in, voice like velvet and smoke. "Then hate me from close range."

His fingers brushed against the satin of her dress, igniting her skin. She swore she could hear the fabric sigh between them.

"I'm not yours," she said, barely able to get the words out.

He smiled — slow, wolfish. "Not yet."

The moment shattered when the door burst open.

One of his men stormed in, out of breath. "Sir, we have a problem."

Alessandro turned, instantly cold. "Speak."

"It's one of the Blake remnants. They tagged one of your warehouses. A message was left."

Emilia's chest tightened. "Blake?"

Alessandro turned to her, that wall slamming back into place behind his eyes.

"You're staying here," he said flatly. "Don't leave this floor. Don't answer the door unless it's me."

"Alessandro—"

But he was already gone, coat swinging behind him like a shadow made of silk and blood.

That night, Emilia sat on the penthouse balcony, the city lights burning below like fireflies from hell. She opened the file he'd left — trembling, reluctant, desperate.

Photos. Letters. Surveillance. Crime reports.

Her father wasn't just a man.

He was a myth soaked in blood.

One picture stood out — Victor Blake, arm around a younger Alessandro. Smiling. Like family.

Her world spun.

They knew each other.

A knock at the door nearly made her jump.

She didn't answer.

Then his voice cut through from the other side. Calm. Controlled.

"It's me."

She opened it, and Alessandro stood there — suit stained with ash, his knuckles bruised.

"They sent a warning," he said simply.

She didn't ask for details. Didn't need them.

Because when he stepped inside, dropped his coat, and finally pulled her into him, she didn't resist.

His kiss was fire. Raw. Ruthless. Desperate.

Like a man claiming the one thing he shouldn't touch.

And Emilia?

She let him.

Because no one ever told her fire could feel like home.