Chapter 4 - A Different Kind of Wedding Night

He did not touch me again that night.
Instead, Luca walked into the massive en-suite bathroom and returned with a first-aid kit, a warm damp towel, and a loose, soft cotton t-shirt of his own.
“Sit on the edge of the bed,” he ordered. The harshness was gone from his tone, replaced by a rigid, careful control.
I obeyed, letting the heavy, suffocating wedding gown pool into a meaningless puddle of white satin on the floor. I sat in my undergarments, shivering slightly in the drafty room. Luca knelt on the expensive rug in front of me. The man who had terrorized Boston’s underworld for four years was now gently wiping a spot of dried blood from a fresh cut on my collarbone.
“This one is deep,” he muttered, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. He applied an antiseptic cream. It stung, but I didn't make a single sound.
“You don't have to be quiet,” Luca said softly, looking up into my eyes. “If it hurts, you can tell me.”
“I’m not allowed to cry,” I recited automatically, a rule beaten into me since childhood.
Luca’s eyes darkened with fresh anger, but he kept his hands incredibly gentle. “You are allowed to do whatever you damn well please in this house. Victor Vance’s rules do not apply here. Do you understand me?”
I gave a small nod. He slipped his soft cotton t-shirt over my head, carefully maneuvering my arms so he wouldn't aggravate my bruised ribs. The shirt smelled like him—cedar, spice, and rain. It swallowed my frame, but it was the most comfortable thing I had worn in years.
He pulled the heavy duvet back. “Get in.”
I slid under the covers. Luca walked to the leather armchair in the corner of the room, sitting down and stretching his long legs out.
“You aren’t sleeping in the bed?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
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“I’m going to sit right here and watch the door,” Luca replied, his eyes fixing on the heavy oak. “No one will ever hurt you again, Seraphina. Try to sleep.”
For the first time in my life, I closed my eyes and actually felt safe.