Chapter 17 – The Fever

• The first sign was the chill.
• It began in Alina’s fingertips, spreading like frost under her skin. She sat in the armchair by the window of the master suite, sketchbook open on her lap, charcoal clutched in her hand—but her fingers trembled so badly the lines blurred. The fire in the hearth crackled behind her, but it did nothing to warm her bones.
• She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead.
• Burning.
• Her vision swam. The walls of the room seemed to swell and bend, breathing with a strange rhythm. She tried to stand but collapsed back into the chair, her knees folding like paper. The sketchbook slipped from her lap and hit the floor with a dull thud.
• She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, blinking at nothing, until the door creaked open.
• Teresa entered quietly, a folded blanket in her arms. She paused when she saw Alina, her eyes narrowing.
• “Miss?” Teresa stepped closer, her voice taut. “You’re pale.”
• “I’m fine,” Alina muttered. “Just tired.”
• But her body betrayed her. Her head lolled sideways, and darkness swept in fast and complete.
• —
• Luciano’s voice cut through the haze, low and urgent.
• “She’s burning up.”
• Someone moved near her. A cool cloth pressed to her forehead. She flinched from the touch.
• “Don’t crowd her,” he snapped.
• “But sir, she needs—”
• “I said out.”
• The presence disappeared. The door shut. Quiet.
• Alina drifted.
• In dreams, her mother called her name—over and over again, like an echo from some distant cliff. She saw fire and broken glass, the smeared imprint of a hand on a white wall. Screams. Then—arms around her, but not her mother’s.
• A deep, unfamiliar voice whispered, You’re safe.
• She moaned, twisting under the sheets.
• When she woke, her skin was damp, her hair clinging to her neck. She was lying in bed—no, not just lying. Her head was in someone’s lap. A steady hand stroked her hair in soft, slow movements.
• Luciano.
• She felt it before she saw him. The scent of him—warm spice and earth. The texture of his tailored slacks beneath her cheek. The steady, unconscious rhythm of his fingers brushing through her tangled hair.
• She blinked up at him. He was staring into the fire, jaw tight, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A dark smudge—her charcoal?—marred the edge of his cuff.
• “You stayed?” Her voice rasped, barely audible.
• His gaze dropped to her immediately, sharp and searching. “Of course I did.”
• Her throat worked, dry as dust. “I… I don’t understand you.”
• A strange smile flickered at his mouth. “Neither do I, sometimes.”
• He reached for the glass of water on the side table and held it to her lips. She drank slowly, the coolness easing the fire inside her. When she pulled back, he didn’t move.
• “You could’ve let Teresa stay.”
• “No,” he said simply. “You called for your mother. You didn’t want strangers.”
• She turned her face into his thigh, away from his eyes, humiliated and dizzy.
• “I didn’t mean to.”
• “I know.”
• His fingers resumed their path through her hair, gentler now, almost reverent.
• Silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind rattling softly against the windows.
• Alina drifted in and out of sleep for the next hour. She felt his presence each time she surfaced—sometimes pacing the room, sometimes seated again, close. He never left.
• She dreamt of him standing at the foot of her bed, watching her, but not with the usual guarded intensity. This time, there was something else. Something fragile beneath the surface. As if he were seeing not a possession or a threat—but a person.
• Her fever dreams turned strange. Luciano with blood on his hands, staring down at a child. Her mother crying in a white hallway. Her own voice, asking, Why do you love me like this? and his reply: Because I don’t know how to love any other way.
• She awoke fully in the middle of the night. The fire had died down. The room glowed faintly from a single lamp. Her body still ached, but her mind was clearer now.
• Luciano sat in the armchair near the window, facing her. He hadn’t shaved. The shadow on his jaw was darker than usual. A cup of untouched tea sat on the side table.
• He didn’t speak when he saw her watching him. Just studied her silently, as though memorizing every feature.
• “What time is it?” she asked.
• “Late.”
• She pulled the blankets tighter around herself. “You should sleep.”
• “I’m not tired.”
• She hesitated. “You should still rest.”
• He didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was quiet, unreadable.
• “I’ve watched you sleep before. But never like this.”
• She stilled.
• He didn’t elaborate. Just leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes locked to hers.
• “You looked… breakable.”
• The confession stunned her.
• “You’ve never treated me like I could break.”
• “I never thought I’d need to.”
• She swallowed. Her mouth felt too dry, her skin too hot despite the sweat.
• “You take everything, Luciano. You always take.”
• He stood slowly, crossed the room, and sat on the edge of the bed. Close—but not touching.
• “I didn’t take this,” he said, reaching out and touching her temple with the back of his hand. “This happened. And I stayed. That’s not taking. That’s choosing.”
• The gesture was so tender it made her chest ache.
• She stared at him, dazed and vulnerable. “Why do you make me hate you… and need you?”
• The words spilled out before she could stop them.
• His eyes darkened—not with anger, but something quieter. Something aching.
• He didn’t answer.
• Instead, he reached down, pulled the blanket gently over her shoulder, and turned off the lamp.
• “Rest, piccola,” he whispered. “We’ll talk when you’re stronger.”
• Then he stood, walked to the door, and left.
• The silence after Luciano’s departure was more deafening than his presence.
• Alina lay motionless in the darkness, the word piccola echoing in her ears. Her body still ached, but a deeper ache had formed—one not in her muscles or skin, but in the fragile place between loathing and longing.
• She wasn’t sure how long she lay like that, staring at the ceiling, chasing thoughts that slipped through her like shadows. Eventually, exhaustion pulled her back under.
• She dreamt of warmth.
• A sunlit terrace. A distant violin. Paint-stained hands wrapped around a teacup. Her mother’s voice humming an old lullaby. In the dream, she turned—and there he was.
• Luciano. In white linen, his hair windblown, no scars in sight.
• He held out his hand.
• She stepped toward him—and the sun blinked out.
• Suddenly, the floor beneath her feet turned to glass, and beneath it, she saw all the parts of herself she’d tried to keep hidden. Rage. Yearning. Fear. Desire.
• She began to fall.
• The next morning, when she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was the tray on the nightstand: fresh tea, a small bowl of fruit, a folded linen napkin. Someone had opened the curtains just enough to let in the early light.
• Luciano wasn’t there.
• Neither was Teresa.
• She sat up slowly, her muscles protesting. She reached for the tea, her fingers shaking, but managed to sip without spilling. The warmth seeped into her chest.
• Someone had chosen the blackcurrant blend she liked best.
• She hated that she noticed.
• And she hated that she cared.
• After a few more sips, she gathered her strength and got out of bed. Her legs felt like stilts beneath her, but she crossed the room and opened the door.
• The hallway was empty.
• She found him in the library.
• Luciano stood by the tall windows, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, his back to her. He was reading something—papers in hand, brow furrowed.
• The room smelled faintly of dust and cedar. One of her sketches was lying on the armrest of the chair nearest him: a charcoal drawing of the grand staircase. Who brought it here? She wondered
• He hadn’t noticed her yet.
• She watched him, silently, struggling to recognize the man from last night in the hard lines of his posture. He looked like a stranger again. Unshakable. Composed. A fortress of flesh and bone.
• She cleared her throat.
• Luciano turned immediately. His eyes landed on her—widened, just slightly.
• “You should be in bed.”
• “I’m not dying,” she said, managing a faint smile. “At least, not today.”
• He stepped forward, instinctively, but stopped himself.
• “You look pale.”
• “And you look like you haven’t slept.”
• “I didn’t.”
• Their eyes locked.
• The weight of the night between them hung in the space.
• He spoke first. “You were delirious.”
• “I remember.”
• His jaw tightened. “You called out for your mother.”
• Alina looked away. “Everyone calls for someone when they’re scared.”
• “You weren’t just scared. You were… lost.”
• The rawness in his voice startled her. She turned her gaze back to him. He hadn’t moved closer, but there was a shift—subtle, but unmistakable. A softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
• She should’ve said something sharp. Something scathing. But she didn’t have the strength to lie.
• “I didn’t expect you to stay.”
• “I didn’t expect to stay either.”
• He ran a hand through his hair, then approached her slowly. This time, she didn’t back away.
• He stopped a foot from her. “You confuse me, Alina.”
• “That makes two of us.”
• Silence.
• Then he reached out—slowly—and brushed his fingers along the side of her face. Her skin still felt hot beneath his touch, but not from fever.
• His thumb hovered at her cheekbone, then fell away.
• “You should sit,” he murmured.
• She let him guide her to the armchair. He moved to the liquor cabinet, poured a measure of something amber into a glass, and handed it to her.
• “I’m not drinking with you.”
• “It’s not for pleasure. It’s for strength.”
• She eyed the glass suspiciously. “What is it?”
• “Single malt. A good one.”
• She took a small sip. It burned down her throat but left warmth in its wake. A different kind of heat.
• Luciano settled into the chair across from her, arms folded. For once, he looked unsure of himself.
• “You want to ask something,” she said.
• He nodded slowly. “Why do you think you hate me?”
• The question stunned her.
• She blinked. “You kidnapped me.”
• “Yes. But why does that equal hate?”
• She scoffed. “Are you serious?”
• “I’ve done worse things to other people,” he said, calm, too calm. “But they didn’t look at me the way you do.”
• Her fingers tightened around the glass. “Maybe because I’m not afraid of you.”
• “I don’t want you to be afraid.”
• “Then let me go.”
• He smiled, but it was a sad smile. “That’s not what this is.”
• She didn’t answer.
• He leaned forward. “I stayed by your side all night. Not because it was strategy. Not because I want your loyalty. I did it because I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering alone.”
• Alina looked down at her lap.
• “That’s not love,” she whispered.
• “I know.”
• “It’s not kindness either.”
• “No,” he agreed. “It’s obsession. I know what I am.”
• His honesty unsettled her more than his cruelty ever had.
• She took another sip of the whiskey, then looked up.
• “So what now?”
• He leaned back. “You rest. You recover. And when you’re strong enough, you can paint again.”
• “That’s all?”
• “For now.”
• He stood and turned to go.
• But at the doorway, he paused. “If you need me again… you only have to call.”
• Then he was gone.
• Luciano’s footsteps faded down the hall, leaving Alina alone with the quiet thrum of her thoughts.
• She lowered the glass, the warmth inside her mouth a stark contrast to the cold swirl inside her chest.
• “Why do you make me hate you… and need you?” The question lingered, fragile and raw.
• She didn’t expect an answer.
• The hours stretched thin as Alina went back to the room, the afternoon sun shifting through the curtains. Her body was tired, but her mind refused rest.
• She traced the scar on her arm—an old mark from childhood—thinking of the scar on Luciano’s shoulder. The one he’d showed her.
• What kind of story did those scars tell?
• She had always believed her father’s scars were badges of honor. Now, she wondered if they were just wounds.
• Her breath hitched.
• The evening came softly, the estate cloaked in twilight.
• Alina wandered into the studio, her footsteps slow and hesitant.
• She approached the easel where a new canvas awaited—blank but for faint outlines.
• Her fingers hovered over the brushes, but she stopped.
• The memories from the fever clung to her like smoke. The vulnerability. The ache. The moment between hate and desire.
• Could she capture that?
• Luciano appeared behind her like a shadow, quiet and steady.
• She didn’t turn.
• He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne filling the room. Leather and something darker—danger and warmth.
• “You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said softly.
• She finally looked at him, eyes burning with a mix of defiance and something deeper.
• “Why do you stay?”
• He hesitated.
• “Because I see you. Not the woman who fights me. Not the prisoner. But the one who paints.”
• His gaze softened.
• “You’re more than what you think.”
• She swallowed hard, torn between wanting to push him away and needing to reach out.
• Their eyes locked.
• The air thickened.
• For a moment, the world outside the studio ceased to exist.
• Her heart pounded—not with fear, but with a confused, hesitant hope.
• Luciano stepped forward, gently closing the distance.
• His hand brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, fingers lingering just a second too long.
• She shivered, her breath catching.
• Suddenly, she pulled back.
• “This doesn’t mean anything,” she said, voice trembling but fierce.
• He nodded, understanding but unwilling to retreat.
• “It means everything,” he whispered.
• Later, as the night deepened, Alina returned to her suite.
• The painting on her easel caught the moonlight—an unfinished portrait of Luciano’s scarred shoulder.
• She stared at it, anger and longing battling inside her.
• The fire between them burned both ways.
• And she was powerless to deny it.