Chapter 13 – Touch And Control

• Days passed.
• Not in peace. Not in acceptance. But in a suffocating, tight-lipped truce.
• Alina didn’t speak to Luciano unless she had to. She didn’t try to escape again—at least not visibly. But her silence wasn’t surrender. It was strategy. Observation. Waiting for a moment he wouldn’t see coming.
• And he watched her.
• Everywhere.
• Every time she stepped into the halls of the estate, she felt it. The eyes. Some hidden, others overt. She could almost feel the surveillance bleeding into her skin, mapping her every breath.
• The art studio remained untouched since that humiliating moment—the fire eating her sketches while he stood above her, unmoved. She hadn’t returned.
• That evening, Teresa entered her shared bedroom without knocking, her voice low. “He wants you in his study. Private dinner.”
• Alina lifted her gaze from the untouched book in her lap. “Tell him I’m not hungry.”
• “I can’t,” Teresa said softly. “You need to go.”
• Alina stood slowly, brushing invisible dust from her silk pants. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
• The door to Luciano’s study was already open when she arrived, revealing a space wrapped in shadows and warmth. Dark wooden shelves lined with leather-bound books towered up to the ceiling. The flickering fireplace painted gold across the rich burgundy rug beneath a heavy mahogany table set for two.
• Luciano sat at the head of the table, wine glass in hand, his tie undone and sleeves rolled up. The top buttons of his shirt were open, exposing a sliver of olive-toned chest.
• He looked at her, expression unreadable. “Come in, Alina.”
• She hesitated at the threshold. Every instinct told her to turn and run. But she stepped inside.
• “I didn’t ask for a dinner,” she said, voice cool.
• “You didn’t,” he agreed. “But I did, I want to have dinner with my wife. Sit.”
• She didn’t. “What is this? Some twisted reward for good behavior?” She rolled her eyes.
• He gestured to the chair across from him. “It’s dinner. Nothing more.”
• Alina moved toward the seat cautiously, like it might bite her. As she sat, she kept her hands folded tightly in her lap.
• He poured her a glass of red wine and slid it forward.
• “I’m not drinking that,” she said immediately.
• “Because you think it’s drugged?”
• “Should I not?”
• He smirked faintly. “If I wanted to drug you, I wouldn’t waste wine doing it.”
• Her stomach twisted. She wanted to throw the glass across the room, but she didn’t. He wanted a reaction—always. She wouldn’t give him one.
• Luciano sipped his own wine, eyes never leaving hers. “You haven’t touched a brush in days.”
• “I don’t paint under threats.”
• “That’s not true. You created some very detailed maps under threat,” he said lightly.
• Her jaw clenched.
• The food arrived—delivered by a silent staff member who quickly disappeared. Steak, asparagus, creamy potatoes. Warm bread. All perfectly plated.
• She didn’t touch any of it.
• Luciano cut into his steak with unhurried grace. “You’ve been quiet. Brooding. I can practically hear your mind screaming.”
• “Good. I hope it deafens you.”
• He chuckled. “It doesn’t. But I admire the volume.”
• They ate—or rather, he did—under a heavy blanket of silence until he suddenly said, “You blush when you’re angry.”
• She blinked. “Excuse me?”
• He leaned back in his chair, studying her. “Your cheeks. They flush. Not just in rage—but when you’re flustered. Cornered.”
• Her breath hitched, but she forced her voice to stay calm. “You’re insane.”
• “I’m observant.”
• “Obsessive,” she corrected.
• He didn’t deny it. “Perhaps. But only about you.”
• “You don’t even know me.”
• “I’ve watched you for years. I touched your mother’s baby bump.”
• The fork fell from her fingers and clattered onto the plate.
• “What?” she whispered.
• His expression remained calm. “Since you were fifteen. After your mother died, your father’s name showed up in certain circles. His debt, his desperation. I was already watching him.”
• Alina stood, her chair screeching against the rug. “You’re sick.”
• Luciano rose as well, slowly, deliberately. “You may think so. But everything I’ve done—every step—was leading to this.”
• She backed away, her voice shaking. “You knew me… when I was still in school. You watched me grow up.”
• “Yes.”
• “Do you hear yourself?” she snapped. “You stalked me. Groomed me like some twisted fairytale villain.”
• He approached. Not fast. But with purpose.
• Alina threw her hand out, shoving at his chest. He didn’t budge. She swung again, this time in a full slap.
• He caught her wrist midair.
• The impact never came.
• His fingers curled around her arm, firm but not bruising. She tried to yank away, but he pulled her forward, his body nearly flush against hers.
• Her breath stilled. His eyes burned into hers—dark, endless, and unreadable.
• “You want to hate me,” he said. “You think hating me will keep you safe. But you’re not safe from yourself, Alina.”
• “You’re delusional.”
• “You tremble,” he whispered, voice low and cutting. “You look at me and your pupils dilate. Your body doesn’t lie. Even when your lips do.”
• “Let me go.”
• He didn’t.
• His hand slid from her wrist to her waist, anchoring her to the desk behind. His other hand moved to her face, fingertips grazing the line of her jaw.
• She flinched.
• Still, he didn’t kiss her.
• “I won’t take what you won’t give,” he murmured.
• “You’ve taken everything,” she spat.
• His hand lingered at her waist. “And yet… you still burn when I’m near.”
• She stared at him, eyes wild. “You’re wrong.”
• He tilted his head. “Am I?”
• Silence hung between them like a lit fuse.
• Luciano leaned closer, his mouth inches from hers.
• Her heart thudded. Her body screamed at her to move. To push him away. To scream.
• But she didn’t move.
• And he didn’t kiss her.
• He stepped back, letting go of her completely.
• “The fire between us burns both ways,” he said quietly. “Deny it all you want.”
• And then he left her there—alone in the dimly lit study.
• —————
• Back in the master suite, Alina paced like a caged animal.
• She barely remembered how she got from the study to the bedroom, but her chest still heaved with fury. Her hands trembled. Not from fear.
• From something else.
• She slammed her palms onto the vanity table, staring into the ornate mirror.
• Her cheeks were flushed.
• Her pupils wide.
• She looked like someone else entirely—someone caught in a fever she couldn’t break.
• “I hate him,” she whispered. “I hate him.”
• But the words fell flat.
• Because what terrified her most wasn’t the anger.
• It was the heat.
• The shameful, crawling heat that bloomed in her chest when he touched her. The way her breath hitched when his mouth hovered near hers.
• She wanted to claw that feeling out of herself.
• She wanted to burn it like he burned her sketches.
• Alina gripped the edges of the vanity tighter, knuckles whitening.
• “No,” she hissed to her reflection. “You don’t get to feel this. You don’t get to react.”
• And yet…
• Her lips were still tingling.
• Her heart still raced.
• Her body still remembered.
• Luciano Moretti hadn’t kissed her.
• But he didn’t need to.
• He’d touched something far worse.
• Her desire.