Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 38: First Mark From The Arsonist

The dream faded slowly, like mist lifting off warm pavement in the early morning sun. It left behind a haunting sweetness that made the act of waking feel like a betrayal.

​Eloise surfaced from sleep the way one emerges from deep, heavy water—disoriented, lungs burning with a phantom need, unsure which way led to the air. In the final, flickering moments of unconsciousness, the dream still clung to her like a silken shroud. It had been so long since her mind had dared to give her something gentle, something not stained with the bitter salt of her mother’s voice.

​In that hazy world, she had heard her father’s laugh—warm, steady, and resonant, like the low notes of a cello. She had felt Drake’s arm slung around her shoulders, heavy and familiar, a weight that had once felt like "forever." It was a world where the car hadn’t crashed, where the music hadn’t died, and where she was still the Princess.

​Tears had dried on her cheeks while she slept, leaving salt tracks that felt tight and itchy when she blinked against the morning light.

She swallowed thickly, the grief of the dream pressing hard behind her ribs. She closed her eyes tighter, trying to force herself back under, to drown in that memory for just one more minute... until the warmth she thought she remembered turned into something entirely different.

​Something felt... wrong. Or rather, too real.

​She shifted slightly, seeking the soft give of the down pillow she expected—and instead felt a solid, radiating warmth beneath her cheek. The rise and fall was unmistakable; the heat was undeniably human. Her breath caught in her throat as a cold clarity began to creep in, slow and unwelcome. This wasn’t the silk-covered bolster of the master suite. This was solid in a way no mattress could ever be.

​Eloise froze, her heart skipping a beat before beginning a frantic, erratic thrum.

​Her breath stalled as she lifted her head slowly, carefully, agonizingly afraid of what she would find and even more afraid of confirming what she already suspected.

Her cheek slid against bare, smooth skin—moving from the heat of a chest to the hollow of a collarbone.

​Her gaze dropped first, landing on a broad, muscular chest that seemed to fill her entire field of vision. Right there, just above where her head had been resting, was a secret she hadn’t known he kept. It was a tattoo, exquisitely detailed: a small dove in mid-flight over his left pectoral, its wings spread wide as if frozen in the eternal act of escaping his heart. The ink was dark and sharp against his tanned skin.

​It was the first time she had seen his chest truly bare. He always kept his shirts buttoned—sometimes low enough to tease, but never enough to reveal his secrets. She’d never known about the dove. Somehow, the sight of it felt more intimate—like a hidden piece of his soul she hadn’t earned the right to see.

​Her heart stuttered.

​Luciano.

​As the fog of sleep fully cleared, she realized her body was... pinned. Not trapped with the intent to hurt, but held. A heavy, possessive arm was curved around her waist like iron wrapped in velvet, anchoring her to him so tightly she could feel the thrum of his pulse against her hip. One of her legs was thrown carelessly, almost shamelessly, between his. They were tangled together in a way that made heat flood her face and settle in lower, treacherous places she refused to name.

​Her gaze lifted slowly, dreading the encounter.

​He was still asleep. Stripped of his usual sharp, predatory control, Luciano looked remarkably different. His lashes were surprisingly long, casting soft shadows against the high planes of his cheekbones. A faint, almost imperceptible crease sat between his brows, as though even in his subconscious, he was calculating the world’s movements. And there—just beneath the outer corner of his right eye—was the tiny beauty mark she’d noticed a dozen times and always pretended she hadn’t.

​He looked... innocent.

​The thought startled her. It was a lie, of course. This was a man who give questionable things as a gift and spoke of blood as a currency. But in the soft morning light, he looked like a man who could be loved.

​His arm tightened reflexively around her waist, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer. Her thigh brushed against his, the friction of skin on skin sending a jolt through her system. The reality of their position hit her with the force of a tidal wave.

​Heat rushed to her face, hot enough to sting. She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from letting out a panicked sound.

​Oh God.

​She glanced at his face again, panic clawing at her throat like a trapped bird—and let out a silent, shaky breath of relief when she saw his eyes remained closed. Her pulse was thundering so loudly in her ears she was certain it would wake the entire mansion.

​She waited. Five seconds. Ten.

​Nothing. He slept on, unbothered, unguarded.

​Relief rushed through her, making her lightheaded. Thank God.

​But her heart refused to settle as her eyes betrayed her, drifting back to him. She studied the line of his jaw and the curve of his shoulder with a morbid curiosity. She tried to anchor herself, telling her heart it meant nothing. People slept weirdly in new beds. She must have moved in her sleep, seeking warmth like a cat. He probably hadn’t even noticed her migration across the vast mattress.

​Her gaze traced the shape of his mouth.

​His mouth—the one that had ruined her yesterday with such devastating precision—was slightly parted, soft in repose.

A flash memory hit her like a lightning strike: that mouth between her thighs, relentless and reverent, coaxing her surrender until she had shattered into a thousand pieces.

​Her mind replayed the sensation vividly, mercilessly, and her body reacted before she could stop it.

Eloise jerked backward violently—her hips shifting, her breath catching in a sharp hiccup. Her balance gave out on the edge of the high bed, and the next thing she knew, the world tilted.

​She hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud, landing hard on her backside. The impact rattled her tailbone and sent a jolt of sharp pain up her spine. She bit down on a yelp of agony, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes fixed wide and horrified on the edge of the bed.

​She held her breath, praying for the floor to swallow her.

​For half a second, there was only the sound of her own frantic heart.

​Then—

​​A low, husky laugh rumbled from the bed, a deep sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and into her skin.

​Luciano’s laugh.

​​"Mm," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and thick with unmistakable amusement. "I was quite enjoying the attention, Paloma. You didn’t have to leave so abruptly."

​Eloise froze, her face turning a shade of red that rivaled the diamond on her finger.

​Luciano was propped up on one elbow now, his eyes open and shockingly sharp despite the lingering haze of sleep. His gaze flicked lazily over her—her flushed face, her undignified position on the floor, the way she was clutching her backside.

​​"You were staring like you wanted to memorize my every atom," he continued smoothly, a predatory glint returning to his gaze. "But I suppose certain... memories caught up with you. You jumped as if I’d bitten you. Which, for the record, I haven’t. Yet."

​"You—!" she choked out, mortification flooding her so fast it felt like drowning. "I—I wasn’t staring! I was... I was disoriented!"

​He chuckled again, a deep sound that felt like a caress. He looked down at his own chest, then back at her. "Is that so?"

​Eloise scrambled to her feet, her dignity in absolute shambles. Pain was forgotten in favor of a desperate need for escape. She bolted for the bathroom, muttering curses under her breath that would have made Drake proud. She shut the door behind her with a resounding slam, as if the wood could protect her from the sheer embarrassment of being caught.

​She immediately sank down onto the closed toilet lid, burying her burning face in her cold hands.

​Idiot. Absolute, world-class idiot.

​Her heart refused to slow. Her mind was a traitor, replaying the way his skin felt, the way he smelled of sweet citrus and sleep. She exhaled shakily, trying to collect the scattered pieces of her composure.

​But then, another wave of embarrassment hit her. She groaned softly, pressing her palms to her temples. What kind of person woke up draped all over their captor-fiancé like a vine?

Luciano.

​Of course it had to be Luciano. It couldn’t have been a dream; it had to be the most complicated man in the world.

​She dragged in a steadying breath and stood up to splash cold water on her face. Her reflection was a disaster—flushed cheeks, wild, bird-nest hair, and eyes that were far too bright with the lingering adrenaline of embarrassment.

​Her gaze drifted downward as she reached for a towel—until it stopped.

​The morning light caught on something at her hand, a sharp, almost violent glint of crimson. Her breath snagged. The ring sat there like a quiet, beautiful accusation. It was heavy and unmistakable. The platinum felt cool and indifferent against her skin, but the diamond—that deep, blood-red teardrop—looked less like a jewel and more like a captured heartbeat. Frozen. Eternal.

​Engagement ring.

​The words echoed in her head, slow and unreal. Her fingers curled slightly, testing the weight. It didn’t disappear. It stayed, anchoring her to a truth she still hadn’t learned how to breathe around. She wasn’t just with Luciano. She was his.

The bathroom door opened without a knock.

​Of course it did. Luciano didn’t believe in boundaries when it came to her.

​He leaned against the frame, entirely unbothered by his lack of a shirt. His pants rode low on his hips, and the dove tattoo was stark and unapologetic against the tan of his skin. His hair was perfectly "messy," and his expression was smug in a way that should have been illegal. He crossed his arms, eyes dancing with evil delight.

​"Get out," she snapped, though it lacked any real venom.

​He ignored the command entirely.

​"Oh, look, Paloma," he said, gesturing lazily to his chest. "You’ve drooled all over me. Quite thoroughly, actually. I think you’ve claimed this territory."

​Her eyes widened in horror. "I did not."

​"Right here." He tapped the spot where the dove’s wing curved near his collarbone. "I was considering framing the moment. My first mark from the arsonist."

​She wanted the earth to open up and swallow her whole. "I’m going to kill you."

"Mm," he murmured, entirely unfazed, lips twitching. "You say that like you didn’t spend the night using me as a very personal pillow."

He tilted his head, voice slipping into a lazy, amused drawl. "And Christ—your sleeping habits have no boundaries. One leg hooked between mine, your hand practically on my—" He broke off, laughing softly when her eyes darted away. "Relax. I’ll spare you the details."

His gaze danced with mischief. "Let’s just say you were very... comfortable. And remarkably enthusiastic in your explorations."

Eloise groaned louder, burying her face back in her hands as she crouched. "Stop talking. Please—just stop."

"Can’t," he replied easily, stepping closer. "You violated several international sleeping boundaries. I feel compelled to address them in the upcoming treaty negotiations."

She peeked at him through her fingers. "You’re impossible. You’re a monster."

His mouth curved into a slow, devastatingly handsome smile. "And yet," he said softly, "you slept wrapped around me like I was your last lifeline in a storm."

​Her breath hitched. The teasing edge softened, just a fraction.

​He stepped fully into the room, crouching in front of her where she crouched. He gently but firmly pried her hands away from her burning cheeks. His eyes weren’t mocking now. They were soft. Dangerously, terrifyingly soft.

​"You were crying in your sleep, Eloise," he said quietly. "You were calling for your father. For Drake."

​The air left her lungs. Her throat closed up, the grief from the dream returning with a sharp, stinging reality.

​"I dreamt of them," she admitted, her voice hoarse. "The good days. Before the... before the end. It’s been a while since my brain let me see them like that."

​He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t tell her it was okay. He simply brushed a thumb across her cheek, catching a stray tear she hadn’t realized was falling.

​"I held you," he said simply. "You were shaking, but you settled when I pulled you in. You stayed quiet as long as I didn’t let go."

​The raw honesty in his voice undid her more than any of his teasing could. She looked at him—really looked at him. At the dove tattoo that represented a peace he likely never felt, at the man who had the power to destroy her and the strange, quiet patience to hold her through a nightmare.

​He stood up, pulling her up with him, his hands steady on her waist. He guided her back into the bedroom, the morning sun now pouring across the unmade bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress, tugging her between his knees, resting his hands on her hips.

​Eloise’s fingers reached out, almost against her will, and traced the inked wings of the dove on his chest.

​"I miss them so much it feels like I’m missing limbs," she whispered.

​​"I know," he replied. And for once, it didn’t sound like an assumption—it sounded like the shared language of someone who also carried ghosts.

​His hands tightened on her hips—not with his usual possessiveness, but with something purely protective.

​"Tell me when you’re ready," he said, his gaze locking onto hers. "The whole story. Every ghost. I want them all, Eloise."

​She nodded, her throat thick with unshed tears.

​He pulled her down to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into the crook of his neck. For a long, silent moment, they just breathed together, watching the dust motes dance in the light.

​Then, because he was still Luciano, he ruined the sentimentality gloriously.

​"You know," he murmured, his lips brushing her temple, "you also moaned my name in your sleep. Twice."

​She elbowed him hard in the ribs.

​He laughed—the real one, warm and unguarded—and caught her wrist before she could strike again, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss the red diamond.

​"Breakfast," he said, standing up and pulling her with him. "Then we face the world. Together. My queen needs her strength if she’s going to rule this house."

​And for the first time since she’d entered this mansion, Eloise didn’t feel like arguing.