Chapter 17: Altar of Devotion
The silence after his confession in the study was a living thing. It followed Bella for days, a third presence in the room, clinging to her skin like the ghost of his touch. He had shown her the wound beneath the armor, and now she didn’t know where to look, how to act. The fear was still there, a cold stone in her belly beneath the baby’s kicks, but it was now twined with something else—a terrifying sense of responsibility. His vulnerability was a weapon he had handed her, and she had no idea how to hold it.
He was more present after that, but differently. He watched her, not with predatory intensity, but with a fraught, almost clinical attention. He noted what she ate. He had a doctor, a tight-lipped woman with calm hands, come three times a week. The mansion, already secure, became a fortress. She saw new faces, men with stillness in their eyes, positioned at the ends of hallways and in the garden shadows.
It was suffocating.
Seeking air one evening, a week after the study, she found herself wandering down a corridor she usually avoided. The door to the private chapel was slightly ajar, a thin slit of golden light cutting across the polished floor. From within, she heard the low, rhythmic murmur of a voice.
She knew he sometimes went there. She’d assumed it was for show, a nod to tradition. But this sound was private, stripped bare. She moved closer, silent on the thick runner, and peered through the gap.
Sandro knelt not at a pew, but on the cold marble steps before the small, ornate altar. He wasn’t in a suit. He wore dark trousers and a simple black sweater, the candlelight from the racks of vigil lights painting his profile in flickering gold and deep shadow. His head was bowed, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white satellites.
“…don’t know what I’m doing,” his voice was a rough scrape, barely audible. “I am asking for a… a manual. Something. You gave her to me, and now I’m… I’m fumbling in the dark. She’s afraid. I see it. I put it there.”
Bella’s breath caught. He was talking to her. To the vague, saintly figures in the icons.
“My father,” he continued, the words tumbling out like a confession, “he knew numbers. He knew leverage and fear. This… this is off the books. This is a different system.” He lifted his head, looking up at the crucifix above the altar. “I need her to live. That’s the only clause. However it has to happen. Take whatever you want from me. Double it. Just let her live.”
The raw plea, so starkly different from the man who commanded rooms, left her dizzy. She must have made a sound—a shift of fabric, a caught breath.
He went preternaturally still. The vulnerable curve of his spine straightened, tendon by tendon, into a rigid line. He didn’t turn. “Bella.”
It wasn’t a question. He’d known she was there. Perhaps the entire time.
He rose slowly, turning to face her. The candlelight danced in his dark eyes, but the openness she’d heard was gone, shuttered behind a gaze of polished onyx. “This isn’t a place for you.”
“Why?” she asked, stepping fully into the doorway. The scent of old incense and warm wax enveloped her. “Because you’re in here being human?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “It’s cold. The floor is hard.”
“I’m not made of glass.”
“Aren’t you?” The words shot out, harsh and sudden. He took a step toward her, the distance between them crackling. “From where I’m standing, you’re the most breakable thing in this city. And you’re in a room with the man most likely to break you.”
“You weren’t breaking me just now. You were praying for me.”
“It’s the same thing!” he exploded, his voice echoing off the stone vaults. The control shattered. He closed the distance, his hands coming up to frame her face, his thumbs pressing against her cheeks. “Don’t you see? My wanting is a curse. My love is a catastrophe. I pray to keep you safe from the world, and the prayer itself is a danger because it means you matter. You matter too much.”
Tears, hot and sudden, spilled from her eyes, tracking over his thumbs. “So what do I do, Sandro? Just be a painting on the wall? A quiet thing in a beautiful room you sometimes visit?”
“Yes!” he hissed, but it was a sound of agony. He pulled her to him, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation. It was a clash, a confession, a surrender. He walked her backwards, his body driving hers until the edge of the altar met the small of her back.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged, pressing his forehead to hers. His eyes were screwed shut. “You shouldn’t have come in here.”
“I’m here,” she whispered.
He made a sound, low in his throat, like something tearing. Then his hands were at the waist of her soft dress, pushing the fabric up, his palms sliding up her thighs. His touch was urgent, but not cruel. Needy. “This is blasphemy,” he muttered against her skin as he knelt before her, his lips following the path his hands had taken.
“Then let’s be damned,” she heard herself say, her fingers tangling in his dark hair.
He lifted her then, his strength absolute, and sat her on the linen cloth covering the altar. The candles wavered, sending their shadows leaping across the saints. He didn’t remove her clothes, just pushed them out of the way, his own movements hurried, fumbling. When he entered her, it was with a slow, devastating precision that belied the fever in his eyes.
He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his arms locking around her, holding her so close not a sliver of light could pass between them. His movements were a deep, rocking cadence, a physical echo of his earlier prayers. Each thrust was a vow, each ragged breath a psalm.
“You will live,” he chanted into her skin, the words broken. “You will. You will.”
She clung to him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her own tears mingling with the sweat on his temple. The setting was surreal, sacred and profane, but the feeling was terrifyingly simple. This was not just passion. It was a pledge. A seal. He was binding her to him in the only way he knew how, in the only language he fully trusted—the wordless, brutal grammar of possession.
When the peak broke over them, it was quiet. A silent, shuddering quake that he absorbed into his own body, his frame shaking with the force of holding them both upright. He didn’t pull away. He slumped against her, his weight heavy and trusting, his breath hot and damp against her collar.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their breathing and the soft hiss of candle wicks.
Slowly, he lifted his head. He looked wrecked. Peaceful. Terrified. He smoothed her dress down with trembling hands, his touch impossibly gentle. He helped her from the altar, steadying her when her legs wobbled.
He righted his own clothes, his back to her for a moment. When he turned, he didn’t look at the altar or the icons. He looked only at her. He reached out and wiped a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb.
“Okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
She nodded, unable to speak.
He took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. He led her out of the chapel, pausing to blow out the candles one by one until only the darkness remained. In the hallway, the modern recessed lighting felt alien.
He didn’t let go of her hand as they walked toward the stairs. “I’m having your family over tomorrow,” he said, his tone shifting into something almost normal, though his grip was tight. “Your father wants to bring some new bread he’s trying. A sourdough with figs.”
The mundane statement, after what had just transpired, was its own kind of surreal. She blinked. “Oh. Okay.”
He stopped at the foot of the staircase, finally looking down at their joined hands. He brought hers to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, his eyes closed. “I’ll be good,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “I’ll be so good tomorrow.”
Then he led her up to bed, where he simply held her, his hand splayed over her stomach, as if trying to guard against every shadow in the room, and every one yet to come.