Emilia's POV

I couldn't sleep all night.

Being that close to her, feeling her warmth just inches away, hearing the sound of her breathing—it did something to me. Something I wasn't ready to face. How deep do my feelings for this woman truly go? How did this happen so quickly? I don't understand it, and yet, it consumes me.

The way she looked at me last night—exhausted, vulnerable, but still trying to act strong—made my chest tighten in a way I've never felt before. I wanted to reach out, to hold her, to whisper that she doesn't have to be strong all the time. That I could be strong for her. But I didn't. Instead, I lay awake beside her, staring at the ceiling, my mind racing with emotions I barely understand.

By the time morning comes, I slip out of bed carefully, making sure not to wake her. She needs rest, and I—I need to clear my head. I quietly make my way out of the room, deciding to go find Lucia. Valeria hasn't eaten properly in days, and she needs something warm, something nourishing.

As I step into the servants' wing, I hear voices—hushed, urgent.

Adrian. And Lucia.

"It's time we tell Miss Emilia the truth," Adrian's voice is firm, insistent.

A pause. Lucia exhales sharply. "No. Not now. She's weak, Adrian. She's been through too much. We can't worry her with this."

I freeze in place, my heart skipping a beat. The truth? What truth?

A cold feeling spreads through my chest. Are they talking about Valeria? About what happened to her? About what she did?

Or... is it something else entirely?

For a moment, I debate stepping forward, confronting them. Demanding answers. But I hesitate. Do I want to know? Do I need to know? I clench my fists, my nails pressing into my palms.

"What do I need to know?" I step forward, my voice steadier than I feel.

Whatever it is, I need to know. If I'm going to protect Valeria, I can't be in the dark.

Lucia and Adrian exchange a glance, hesitation heavy between them. It's a silent game of who will speak first, who will break the news. Eventually, Adrian cracks.

Adrian exhales, rubbing a hand down his face before finally speaking. "There's talk on the street," he begins cautiously. "Carlos—one of Dominic's men—was found dead."

Carlos. The name stirs something in my mind, a shadow of familiarity that I can't quite grasp. I wait, my fingers curling into my palms.

"He was stabbed," Adrian continues, watching me carefully. "In the heart. In one of Dominic's hideouts."

Lucia shifts, her gaze flickering with unease. "It happened the same night Valeria came back here... wounded."

The air around me stills.

Carlos.

The name repeats in my head like a broken record. A flicker of something brushes the edges of my mind—fragments of voices, laughter that wasn't kind, hands that weren't gentle. The memories press in, fragmented and cruel.

"Carlos, you'll break her." "That's enough, Carlos. Let's go to work."

The feeling of hands pinning me down.

I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling sharply. No. Not now.

Lucia and Adrian mistake my reaction for something else—fear of what Valeria might have done. They don't know. They don't understand.

I force my breathing to steady, swallowing down the rising nausea. My mind spins, trying to piece things together.

Did Valeria know? Did she find out what they did to me? No. There's no way. Even if she had, she wouldn't—she couldn't—kill one of Dominic's men for me. Would she?

My heart hammers painfully against my ribs. Would Valeria kill?

The thought unsettles me, twisting into something dark and unfamiliar. I don't have an answer, and that terrifies me.

Shoving the thoughts aside, I school my expression, refusing to let them see the turmoil inside me. "Valeria will wake up soon," I say, my voice level despite the storm raging within me. "Please prepare food for her. Make sure it's what the doctor recommended."

Lucia watches me closely, searching for something in my face, but she doesn't push. She nods. Without another word, I turn and walk away.

Each step feels heavier than the last. My mind is drowning in questions, in uncertainties, in the horrifying possibility that Valeria might have done something she can't take back.

Valeria... what did you do? You couldn't have... you wouldn't kill... would you?

I slip back into the room, quietly shutting the door behind me. My heart pounds, my hands shaking slightly as I press them against my sides. I barely have a second to collect myself before I hear a sharp gasp.

Valeria's eyes shoot open, wide and unfocused, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Panic grips me as I rush to her side. "I'm here," I whisper, my voice urgent but soft. "It was just a dream."

Her breathing is uneven, her eyes darting around the dimly lit room before finally settling on me.

For a moment, there's nothing but silence between us. Then, she exhales slowly, her body sinking slightly into the pillows.

But she doesn't stop looking at me.

I watch as her gaze flickers over my face, lingering, searching. My throat tightens when I see something unfamiliar in her expression—concern.

"You didn't sleep again, did you?" Her voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.

I stiffen, caught off guard.

Embarrassed, I turn my head away, suddenly hyperaware of how exhausted I must look—of the dark circles under my eyes, the way my skin feels too tight over my bones. I don't answer her, because if I do, I might break.

Valeria's POV

I blink, my body still sluggish, my head heavy with exhaustion, but I force myself to focus. Something feels... off.

Emilia is still by my side, but her expression is tense, her lips pressed into a thin line, her shoulders stiff. There's something restless about her, something uneasy.

I push the thought aside and clear my throat. "Is Lucia around?"

Emilia freezes.

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out at first. Her brows furrow, and her fingers twitch against the sheets as if she's trying to keep herself from reacting.

"...Why?" she finally asks, her voice cautious. I shift slightly, ignoring the dull ache in my side. "I need her."

Something flickers in Emilia's eyes—something sharp and unreadable. "Why?" she repeats, but this time, there's a slight edge to her tone.

I frown. "Just call her."

The words barely leave my mouth before Emilia moves, standing abruptly, her hands clenched at her sides. Frustration rolls off her in waves, her breathing uneven.

"I won't call Lucia," she snaps, her voice firmer than I've ever heard it.

I blink, caught off guard. "What—"

"Anything you need, I'll do it," she cuts me off, her eyes burning into mine. "Not Lucia. Not Adrian. Just me."

She takes a small step forward, her expression fierce, her chest rising and falling heavily. "So just say what you need, Valeria. Tell me."

I stare at her, stunned into silence.

For a moment, all I can do is watch her—watch the way her hands tremble slightly, the way her lips press together like she's holding back something more.

She's standing there, her entire body tense, waiting for me to speak. Her breathing is uneven, her eyes burning with something fierce, something raw.

I swallow, my throat dry.

"...Bathroom." Emilia's eyes widen slightly, like she wasn't expecting that answer.

For a moment, she just stares at me, lips parted, shoulders still tense. I watch as a dozen different emotions flicker across her face—relief, hesitation, something else I can't quite name.

Then, without another word, she moves. She reaches for the blankets, carefully pulling them away, her movements slow and deliberate, like she's afraid I might break.

Her hands are warm against my skin as she helps me sit up, supporting my weight. I hate that I need the help, but I don't fight her.

She doesn't speak as she lifts my arm over her shoulder, pressing her other hand firmly against my waist to keep me steady. I tense at the closeness, at the way her scent wraps around me, at the way I can feel her breath against my neck when she exhales.

"Lean on me," she murmurs, her voice softer now.

I do. I don't have a choice. My body is weak, my muscles ache, and when I try to take a step, my legs feel unsteady beneath me.

Emilia notices immediately. "I got you," she reassures, tightening her grip on me.

I swallow the frustration building in my throat and let her lead me forward.

Each step is slow, careful, but it's not the pain that has my heart hammering in my chest. It's her—her presence, her touch, the way she's treating me like I'm something fragile.

Like I matter.

We reach the bathroom, and Emilia carefully eases me down onto the closed toilet seat. I sigh, pressing my fingers against my forehead, trying to catch my breath.

"You okay?" she asks, crouching in front of me, her voice filled with nothing but concern. I nod, even though I don't feel okay at all.

She hesitates, watching me closely. Then, she stands and reaches for the faucet, running warm water before grabbing a clean cloth.

I watch as she wrings it out, her fingers delicate, her movements precise. She kneels back down in front of me, gently dabbing the sweat from my forehead.

The care in her touch makes my stomach twist. I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. "You don't have to do this."

Emilia's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, she looks almost... hurt.

"I want to," she says softly.

Emilia's POV

My heart is racing.

Not because I'm scared. Not because I don't want to do this. But because I do.

Because Valeria's weight is pressed against me. Because my arm is wrapped around her waist, holding her steady, her warmth seeping through the thin fabric of her clothes, her scent—something sharp, something undeniably her—clouding my thoughts.

Because she's trusting me with this, with her.

Her body is solid beneath my touch, lean but strong, even as she leans into me for support. I can feel the tension in her muscles, the way she's holding herself stiff, like she's fighting against needing this. Against needing me.

And I don't know what to do with that.

I try to focus, to steady myself, to ignore the way my fingers twitch against her skin. But it's impossible. Every little thing about her is pulling me under, drowning me in something I'm too afraid to name.

We move slowly, carefully, each step a battle between her pride and her exhaustion. Her breath is warm against my collarbone, and I swear I feel her fingers tighten against my shoulder, just for a second.

My throat is dry. Is she aware of what she's doing to me? Of how my pulse is hammering so hard I think she might hear it?

Of how my mind won't stop memorizing every detail—the way her hair brushes against my cheek, the slight hitch in her breath when she stumbles, the way she feels against me, like something I was never meant to hold but now can't let go of?

I force myself to focus, to keep my grip firm but gentle, to pretend like I'm not unraveling with every step we take.

When we reach the bathroom, I ease her down onto the toilet seat carefully, trying not to let my hands linger, but God, it's so hard.

"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

She nods, but she looks away, as if avoiding my eyes.

I swallow, turning to run warm water over a clean cloth, trying to steady my hands. But they won't stop shaking.

I kneel in front of her, pressing the damp cloth to her forehead, my fingers brushing against her skin. She tenses slightly but doesn't pull away.

I shouldn't be this affected by something so simple. But I am.

I glance up, finding her eyes already on me, watching, searching. And for the first time, I don't know what she's thinking.

I clear my throat, trying to push away the lump forming there. "You don't have to do this," she murmurs, her voice rough.

I hold her gaze, my fingers still lingering against her cheek. "I want to."

Her lips part slightly, like she's about to say something, but she doesn't. She just stares at me, and for the briefest moment, the world feels impossibly still.

"I can take it from here," she says.

I blink. "What? How? How will you stand up to... you know, remove... then... you know?" My voice rises an octave, pure panic slipping through.

There is no way she can do this on her own. Even if she did ask me for help, I probably wouldn't be able to do it—I'd combust on the spot.

She stares at me, her brows furrowing slightly, trying to understand. And then, realization dawns.

Her eyes widen. Her cheeks flush red.

"What did you think I asked you to help me with?" Her voice is almost a scream.

I freeze, feeling heat rush to my face, like I might actually die from embarrassment. I lift a shaky hand and point toward the shower.

Valeria looks at me like if she had a gun, she'd shoot me without hesitation. "You think I asked you to shower me?!"

I open my mouth, then close it. Then open it again, but words fail me.

Oh, God.

"I—then—what?" I stammer.

I know she didn't mean pee—the catheter bag was still attached—so what did she want?

My eyes dart around the bathroom, desperate for clues, until they land on the sink.

Oh. I point at it slowly, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.

Valeria nods, looking at me as if she's finally impressed by my incredible intelligence.

"I knew that!" I blurt out, desperately trying to salvage whatever dignity I have left.

She scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief.

Ignoring the daggers she's glaring at me, I rush to the cabinet, grab a fresh toothbrush, and squeeze toothpaste onto it like it's the most important task of my life. She must think I'm some kind of pervert now.

My mind spirals. She thinks I wanted to undress her. To help her bathe. To—

Oh, God. Undress her.

No. No, no, no. Focus, Emilia. Focus.

I grip the toothbrush tighter, shoving it toward her like I might pass out if I hold onto it for another second. Valeria takes it, still eyeing me warily, but I pretend not to notice.

I need a distraction. A hole to crawl into. Anything.

But instead, I stand there, my face burning, watching as she slowly begins to brush her teeth, completely unaware that I am having a full mental breakdown just two feet away.

I wait patiently as she finishes brushing her teeth, my hands fidgeting slightly as I try to focus on anything but her. The way she moves, the way her throat bobs when she swallows, the way a drop of water from the faucet clings to her lips before she wipes it away—it’s too much.

When she finally sets the toothbrush down, I exhale, trying to shake off the tension in my shoulders.

“Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

She opens her mouth—probably to protest—but I don’t give her the chance. I step forward, wrapping my arm around her waist again, bracing her against me as gently as I can.

She stiffens immediately.

Her hands fly to the sink, gripping it for balance, but I feel it—the hesitation, the discomfort.

I press my lips together. I know she hates this. I know she’d rather do this herself, but she can’t. And I won’t let her risk hurting herself just because she’s too damn stubborn to accept my help.

I adjust my hold, careful, firm but gentle. But dear God, why does she have to feel like this?

Warm. Solid. Her scent—subtle, clean, something uniquely her—invades my senses, making my pulse spike.

I try to keep my body under control, but it’s impossible not to feel her. Not to notice how my front is practically molded to her back, how the heat of her skin seeps through her thin shirt, through the fabric of my own.

Valeria exhales sharply, shifting slightly, and I swear I hear her grit her teeth.

"Just let me do this," I murmur, almost pleading.

She doesn’t reply.

She just grips the sink harder, her knuckles turning white, her whole body tense. Before she let go and lean into me.

God, why does it feel like I’m about to lose my mind?