Page 48 of Forbidden
And now she’s a ghost I’ll never outrun.
The guilt sinks its teeth in and never lets go. She died hating me, maybe him too, and every touch from Adriano since feels like I’m carving her name deeper into that grave.
Present Day
The glass slips from my hand, shattering on the tile, jolting me back. Water pools around my feet, cold and sharp with glass, but I barely feel it, that night replaying like a looped reel. I stumble to the counter and try Adriano’s number again. It rings out, no answer, his voicemail a hollow tease.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my voice breaking. Where is he?
A creak sounds from the living room and makes my spine stiffen. I’d dismantled the cameras, sick of his constant watch, so there’s no feed to check. Another noise. Then a shuffle, closer now. My pulse spikes, dread twisting in my gut. I grab a knife from the block, the blade glinting in the moonlight spilling through the window, and creep toward the sound, barefoot and silent.
The living room’s shadows pool thick, and I catch a figure A tall, broad one moving near the couch.
I move silently, pressing my back against the wall, holding the knife tightly. Every breath feels too loud, my pulse hammering in my ears. I inch forward, my body taut, my muscles coiled. If they are here to hurt me, I will make them bleed first.
A shadow moves at the edge of the hallway.
I do not hesitate. I lunge.
The knife slashes through the air, catching flesh. There’s a sharp inhale and a grunt of pain before a hand grabs my wrist and twists hard. I collide into a body, and my free fist connects with solid muscle. A rough snarl breaks through the quiet, and though it sounds familiar, I am too caught in the fight to process it.
A hard shove sends me stumbling back, my vision swimming. The knife clatters to the floor, and I move to grab it again, but then—
“Penelope.”
His voice.
My breath hitches. “Adriano?”
He lets out a breath. “Jesus Christ, you cut me.”
I suck in a breath as he steps into the low light, his features twisting in pain. Blood drips from his right arm, splattering onto the floor.
“Oh my God.” The knife feels like fire in my hand, and I drop it. “I—fuck—I didn’t know it was you.”
“No shit,” he mutters, shaking his head, but his voice is softer than I expect.
I reach for him, my fingers ghosting over his torn sleeve. “You are hurt.”
“I have had worse.”
“That does not mean it is fine,” I snap, my voice tight with guilt. “What the hell, Adriano? You broke into my apartment?”
He does not flinch. “You were not answering your phone.”
My stomach tightens. “You weren’t, either.”
“I was in an accident. My phone screen is damaged.”
“What? Oh my God, are you okay?”
“Yes, just my right arm is injured and a few ribs busted up bad, but I’m okay.”
“So you just—what? Decided to scare the shit out of me in the middle of the night?”
He does not apologize. He does not even look guilty. Instead, his lips curl into something almost satisfied. “You worried about me?”
“Of course I am!” I gesture at his bleeding arm. “You are literally dripping blood all over my floor.”
