Book two of 'The Vengeance Duology'
Five years ago, the lads and I made the biggest mistake of our lives-a reckless decision that shattered everything.
We destroyed what mattered most, but my deepest regret is how much I hurt her.
Every moment of pa...
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The past week has been a dream. Honestly, I don't know what else to call it. For the first time in five years, it feels like I have my family back—like this gaping void inside me has finally found a way to heal.
Alessio and I are taking it slow, and I couldn't be happier. I didn't realize how much I genuinely missed him—not just the idea of him, but him being here, really here. His presence brings this quiet warmth in my chest, a feeling that no amount of time or distance could replace. His hugs, his laugh, even the way he teases me about everything...it's like I forgot what it was like to feel whole.
The way he looks at me sometimes, with that soft, almost vulnerable smile, like he's just as relieved as I am to be back in this moment—it does things to me. It's simple, but it's everything I didn't realize I was craving.
My eyes trace over his sleeping form, sprawled on his back in just his boxers, his body covered in tattoos I know like the back of my hand. He lets out a low groan, rolling over so his back faces me, and my heart stutters, tears filling my eyes as I see them. My doodles.
They're scattered across his back, filling in spaces that used to be bare. I recognize each one—the flowers, the butterflies, even a variation of the bird tattoo we both have inked on our hips. I doodled these years ago, before we were even together, back when we were just friends. That was nearly eight years ago, yet here they are, part of him, like he's kept pieces of me all this time. I sniffle, trying to hold back, but the sound must wake him because Alessio shoots up instantly.
"Baby," he says, his voice rough with sleep, looking at me with concern. "What's wrong?" His hands cup my face, warm and steady, his eyes searching mine.
"Your tattoos," I croak out, my voice barely a whisper. He smiles softly, the edges of his lips curling in that familiar way that always makes my heart flutter.
"You like them?" he asks, brushing his thumb across my cheek as he watches me, waiting. I nod, swallowing hard, overwhelmed.
"I've been waiting to show you," he says, his voice warm.
My fingers lightly trace over the designs, and I ask, "How long have you had them?"
He hesitates for a moment, then murmurs, "Five years. A few days after you left, I... I got them done."
"Five years?" I repeat, still tracing over each line and swirl, feeling the memories rush back. I glance up at him, my eyes stinging. "You never told me."
He lets out a quiet laugh. "Didn't think I'd get the chance to," he admits. "But they were always yours, Amour. I wanted to carry you with me, even if you were gone."
I press my hand to his back, right over one of the flowers I used to doodle mindlessly. "These... you saved them?"
He nods, watching me closely. "Every single one. I took photos of all your little sketches, every napkin, every scrap of paper you left lying around. Couldn't lose any of them, you know?"
