Chapter 4: Don't Flinch
Elio's POV:
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The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the silence.
Not the comforting kind. Not the soft hush of morning.
No, this was the kind of silence that comes before a storm.
The silk sheets rustled beneath me as I sat up in the bed that wasn't mine. The bedroom looked the same as it had the night before—elegant, cold, vast—but there was a shift in the air. Like something had changed while I slept.
I slid out of bed, feet pressing into the plush rug. I was still in the black shirt and slacks I'd worn to dinner, wrinkled now and clinging to the sweat on my skin. I walked slowly toward the door.
But it didn't open.
Locked.
My heart jumped.
I tried again, twisting harder. Still nothing.
"Locked?" Luca's voice came from behind me, calm as a whisper.
I turned.
He was leaning against the doorway of the adjoining room—shirtless this time, black dress pants hanging low on his hips, tattoos snaking down his chest and arms like a story I'd never been allowed to read.
My mouth dried.
"You locked me in?" I said.
"You flinched," he replied.
"What?"
"Last night. Every time I got close." He stepped into the room, bare feet silent against the floor. "You flinched like I was going to break you."
"Maybe I thought you would," I snapped.
He shrugged. "I want to see if you still do."
He came closer, slowly, like a predator testing a line.
My pulse raced. "Let me out."
"You're not a prisoner."
"Then unlock the door."
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked right up to me, stopped inches away, and reached out.
I tensed as his hand cupped my jaw—not rough, not cruel. Just heavy. Inescapable.
His thumb brushed my cheek.
"Still flinching," he whispered.
"I'm not a toy," I breathed.
"Then stop acting like one."
I shoved his hand off me and stepped back.
"Why are you doing this?" I demanded. "You say you want to protect me, but you're treating me like a possession. Like something you can control."
He tilted his head. "I don't want to control you. I want to own the part of you that's already mine."
"You don't own anything."
His eyes flicked downward, scanning me from head to toe.
"You're wrong."
I hated the way those words made heat bloom low in my stomach.
He walked over to the dresser, pulled out a folded bundle of black fabric, and tossed it to me.
"Shower. Dress. Join me downstairs in twenty minutes."
I stared at the clothes.
"And if I don't?"
"Then I'll come get you," he said softly. "And you won't like how I do it."
He left.
---
The bathroom was marble and gold, with a rainfall shower that felt like stepping into a dream. The clothes he gave me fit perfectly—a black turtleneck, slim pants, bare feet. My own armor, of his choosing.
When I stepped into the dining room, I was met with floor-to-ceiling windows, a long table set for two, and Luca already seated at the head, sipping coffee like he hadn't just threatened to drag me downstairs.
He looked up. His gaze moved over me slowly.
"You look better in black," he said.
I sat across from him, tense.
The food was perfect—fresh fruit, eggs, croissants still warm. I ate in silence, every movement precise, mechanical.
He didn't speak until I'd finished half the cup of coffee.
"You had a brother," he said.
I froze.
"You never talked about him," he continued. "Not when we were kids. Not even when he died."
My fingers tightened around the mug.
"Why are you bringing this up?" I asked.
"Because he died in your place."
The room chilled.
"He took the beating meant for you. Your father thought you'd stolen something. But your brother confessed."
I stared at the floor.
"I was twelve," I whispered.
"And he was thirteen. You ran the next day."
"Because if I stayed, I'd die."
"You should've told me."
"You weren't safe either."
"I was always safer than you," he growled. "But you didn't let me help."
I looked at him. "And now? You think this—trapping me in your mansion, locking doors—is helping?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "Because the people who killed your brother? The ones your father owed? They're back. And you're a loose thread they want to cut."
I stared at him.
"You think I didn't know?" he asked. "They already found your name on a death list. If I hadn't seen your painting that night, you wouldn't be here now."
I didn't know what scared me more—what he was saying, or how calm he was saying it.
"Why didn't you tell me last night?" I asked.
"Because you would've run. And I don't chase anymore."
My lips parted. "So you... kidnapped me for my own good."
"No." He leaned forward. "I rescued you. You just haven't realized it yet."
---
Later, I stood alone in the vast library, staring out the window. Milan glowed in the distance. The city felt farther than ever.
I heard his steps behind me.
"You're thinking of leaving," he said.
"No."
"Yes."
I turned. "Would you let me?"
"No," he said simply.
I laughed softly, bitter. "Of course not."
He came closer.
"You can lie to yourself all you want, Elio. But you came back to Milan for more than art. You came back because something inside you wanted this. Me."
I didn't move as he reached out, fingers brushing my wrist.
"You want to hate me," he whispered, voice low. "But you never could."
He lifted my hand, slowly, carefully, and pressed it to his chest—over his heart.
"I'm not asking for trust," he said. "Not yet. Just don't flinch."
I looked up at him, eyes locked.
Then I nodded.
And this time, when his lips brushed mine—
I didn't flinch at all.
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