When I woke up the next day, I was slightly disoriented. The bed felt unfamiliar, and something hard but warm was pressed against my back. I shifted, trying to make sense of my surroundings, only to realize I was pulled close against Michael’s chest. One of his arms was wrapped securely around me, holding me against him.

"I see you’ve woken up," his deep, slightly hoarse voice cut through the quietness of the morning, sending a wave of awareness through me. I stilled at the sound, my body tensing briefly before relaxing. His voice was steady, comforting in its rawness, as if he had just woken up too.

Slowly, I turned under his arm, twisting to face him. His hand didn’t leave my waist; it remained there, resting on me as though it belonged. Michael’s other arm was folded beneath his head, propping him up slightly. His eyes were half-open, observing me with a calm intensity. Even with the early morning light filtering into the room, his features were striking, his sharp jawline and intense gaze demanding attention.

"Yes," I answered quietly, our eyes locking. For a brief moment, I was lost in the depths of his piercing blue eyes, a shade or two darker than mine, the quietness between us more comfortable than I would have expected.

As my gaze wandered, it drifted down his body, taking in the sight I hadn’t fully appreciated the night before. His chest was covered in tattoos, bold and intricate designs that spread across his muscular frame. On the left side of his chest, a massive wolf was etched into his skin, its eyes fierce and alive, as though it might leap off his skin at any moment. On the right side, a regal lion, its mane wild and untamed, seemed to mirror Michael’s own strength. My eyes traced the intricate details, mesmerized by the way the tattoos breathed with him, his chest rising and falling with each breath, bringing the animals to life.

Then, as I looked closer, I noticed something I hadn’t before. Within the lion’s mane, in small, delicate letters, were names—names of his brothers, inked permanently into his skin. The realization hit me like a soft punch to the gut. This wasn’t just art for the sake of it; these tattoos meant something to him, something deeply personal. Each stroke, each line had a story behind it, a memory that he carried with him every day.

On his stomach, the phoenix caught my attention. Rising from the flames, the bird seemed to symbolize something powerful—rebirth, resilience, or maybe survival. I couldn’t help but wonder about the stories behind each tattoo, the reasons he chose them. What had he been through to make these images so important that he’d wear them on his skin forever? Would he tell me if I asked?

My mind drifted to my sister and the tattoo she had on her back. It wasn’t nearly as elaborate as Michael’s, just two sets of writing, but it was important to her. Most people didn’t know about it; she kept it hidden, personal. It wasn’t something she showed off or explained unless you were close enough to understand. It made me think about what tattoos meant to people, how they chose to immortalize certain moments, people, or feelings on their bodies.

I had never felt the urge to get one myself. I didn’t have anything that meaningful, anything I wanted to carry with me forever. Tattoos were permanent, and for someone like me, that permanence was daunting. What if I changed my mind? What if what mattered today didn’t matter tomorrow? The thought of committing to something like that was too much.

But if I ever were to get one, it would be for my sister. She was the one person I could imagine carrying with me forever, the one person whose impact on my life would never fade. Maybe it wouldn’t be anything big or bold, just something simple that reminded me of her—a small token of our bond.

As I lay there, still wrapped in Michael’s arms, my thoughts lingered on his tattoos and what they represented. I wanted to ask him, to understand more, but for now, I let the silence settle between us, content to be in the moment, knowing that some stories take time to unfold.

Slowly, Michael’s hand slipped lower. I stiffened, unsure of what to do, but I didn’t push it away. His hand came to a stop at mid-thigh, right where my nightgown ended. There, he started tracing patterns on my skin, his fingers leaving a trail of fire with each soft touch.

I forced myself to look back up at him. He had been watching me the whole time, observing my reaction while I had been too absorbed in his tattoos. Heat flushed my face, and I could feel the embarrassment rising.

“I think we should get ready and head downstairs,” I blurted out, breaking the tension in the room. I hurriedly pulled away from him and rushed into the washroom. I didn’t even have to look back to know he was smirking; I could almost feel it.

Once we were both dressed, we headed downstairs for breakfast. I tried to focus on serving myself, but I was still flustered from our earlier interaction. Moments later, Andrea and Raffaele walked in. Andrea sat beside me, leaving Raffaele to sit across from Michael.

“Did he hurt you? Should I plan his murder?” Andrea’s voice was low, her tone calm, but I knew she was serious. She always was when it came to me.

“No, Andrea. He didn’t force me to sleep with him or hurt me in any way,” I whispered back, grateful for her concern. “I know that’s not a redeeming quality—it’s just basic respect. But you know if it had been any other man, he wouldn’t have cared whether I liked it or not.” I glanced over at her, worried about what she might say next. “What about you?”

She shrugged slightly, her tone surprised. “He was decent, actually. He noticed the bruise on my wrist because I forgot to cover it up.”

I sighed. “It’s a good thing he hasn’t seen the fading bruises on your ribs from Dad’s kicks. He’d lose it.”

Suddenly, Andrea’s attention shifted to Michael. I followed her gaze, wondering what had caught her eye. Before I could say anything, she spoke up coolly, her voice calm but sharp.

“If you want to talk about me,” she said, her eyes locked on Michael, “at least have the courage to do it in front of me.”

Michael didn’t respond right away. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and his gaze intensified. I realized just how much he had been holding back around me, how much he had toned down his natural assertiveness so he wouldn’t scare me. If he had ever looked at me like that before, I would have been terrified. But Andrea, of course, remained unfazed.

“I heard you’re good at breaking noses,” Michael finally said, his smirk deepening.

I froze. Damn it. In my efforts to keep him from killing Matteo, I had let that little detail slip.

Andrea didn’t seem the least bit concerned. “He should be glad I didn’t break his spine,” she replied casually, her eyes drifting back down to her plate. She was so cool, so fearless. I admired her so much at that moment. Her response seemed to have impressed both Michael and Raffaele. Although I noticed a flicker of suspicion in Raffaele’s eyes.

Before long, we were saying our goodbyes. Andrea barely acknowledged our parents, offering only the briefest of nods to them. Instead, she hugged Enzo, and I overheard him reminding her to remember everything he’d taught her about survival.

"Keep her in line, Christina. If she messes up this alliance, you’ll both pay dearly." Dad’s words were cold, his threat sending a chill down my spine. I nodded quickly, eager to get away from him.

I hugged Enzo next, his warm embrace offering some comfort before I turned to leave. Without another glance at our parents, I climbed into the car with Michael. Raffaele sat in the passenger seat, while Andrea sat on the other side of Michael. The vehicle pulled away, heading toward the airport, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something far more complicated than I had anticipated.