Chapter 10

Eleanor's POV

I didn't know how to comfort Lucas. Maybe a hug would help.

The metallic scent of blood on him was getting stronger, a constant, nagging worry that his wounds would get infected. I kept my hands hovering, carefully avoiding his injuries as I gently patted his back. "I'm here now, nothing like that will ever happen again. I'll always be by your side."

Lucas was trembling. He had to be in so much pain.

Just hearing him describe it had nearly broken me; I couldn't imagine living through it.

Suddenly, he pulled me into a crushing embrace, squeezing so tightly it was hard to breathe. This must have been his way of seeking comfort. I let him hold me. In that moment, I would have let him do anything.

When he finally loosened his grip, I tilted my head up, trying to pour all my sincerity into my gaze. "Can I meet your mother?"

She must have endured unimaginable pain to leave behind such an incredible son. I could feel her love, a love so different from my parents'—it was saturated with reluctance and a heartbreaking sense of helplessness.

Lucas's eyes were glistening, like a lost fawn in a dark forest. The usual sharpness and depth were gone, replaced by a raw purity. The mere mention of his mother seemed to cloak him in a shroud of sorrow that softened his formidable presence, making my heart ache for him.

His hand rose to my face, his fingertips trembling as they brushed the corner of my eye, a silent urging. But I waited a long time before he finally answered.

"My mother hasn't been buried yet."

"Why?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. I immediately tensed, realizing I might be poking at a fresh wound. I watched him anxiously, but he didn't seem to mind.

"She said she wanted me to find the woman I love before I lay her to rest. Only then could she be at peace."

His eyes shone like stars in the night sky, and in their light, I saw my own bewildered reflection. My palms grew sweaty. "Are you saying… that I'm…"

"Yes."

Lucas pressed a soft, restrained kiss to my lips, so gentle it was as if he was afraid of hurting me. "Will you come with me? To my mother's funeral?"

How could I possibly refuse him?

I nodded forcefully, afraid he might miss the conviction in the gesture. "Of course, I'll go."

The funeral was held a week later in Sicily.

In that time, Lucas's wounds had mostly healed.

It was my first time in Sicily, but instead of the usual thrill of a new place, a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach.

Lucas's mother was clearly an important figure. The caliber of the guests told me that much.

The sea of black formal wear cast a somber, dignified pall over the entire event. I recognized several faces from the gala—men and women of influence.

Thanks to my association with Lucas, they all approached me to offer a polite greeting.

Lucas walked over, an empty wine glass in his hand. "Are you holding up okay? If you're not feeling well, you can go upstairs and rest."

A pang of guilt hit me. How could I let him worry about me at his own mother's funeral? "Just tell me the room number."

I was, admittedly, exhausted.

A strange sadness had settled over me, even though I'd never met his mother. My heart felt like it had been squeezed by an invisible hand, thrown to the ground, and trampled by the passing crowd, while I could only watch, helpless. The powerlessness was suffocating. I desperately wanted to escape.

Maybe this was empathy.

Lucas studied me for a long moment, his expression a mixture of confusion and concern. He set down his glass and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. "You're flushed. Are you running a fever?"

I had barely left his side while he was recovering, pulling several all-nighters. Maybe I really was getting sick. I leaned into his touch, letting my forehead rest against his palm. His touch seemed to soothe the ache. "I'll just go rest for a bit."

His arm wrapped around my waist, his body heat so intense I felt like I might melt into him. "I'll take you up."

"No, you stay here." He was the host of this funeral. He couldn't leave.

I stood on my toes and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. "I can go by myself. You need to be here for your guests."

He looked at me, his reluctance clear. To reassure him, I whispered in his ear, "Trust me. I have a surprise for you tonight."

His eyes instantly brightened, and his whole demeanor seemed to lift. "I'll have someone show you the way."

Lucas found a maid who looked competent and trustworthy. Worried he was already stretched too thin, I got the room number from him and then politely dismissed her.

From what Lucas had implied, this had been his mother's room.

It was far more pristine than I'd expected; he must have had someone maintaining it. The layout felt strangely familiar. Did all family matriarchs have similarly arranged suites? It reminded me of my own mother's rooms.

Even the placement of the photographs was the same.

And the people in them…

I hadn't meant to snoop, but the photograph on the bedside table, why was someone from the Vance family in it?

My grandfather had passed away when I was very young, but the man in the picture was exactly as I remembered him. The elegant, noble-looking woman on his left, I presumed, was Lucas's mother. They looked close.

What was her connection to the Vance family? Why had no one ever mentioned her? Could her death have something to do with them?

And why did Lucas specifically send me to this room? Did he want me to see this? My mind was a tangled mess of questions with no answers.

I didn't know how long I sat there, clutching the photo frame, until a knock on the door snapped me back to reality. It was already evening.

I opened the door to find Lucas standing there, a weary smile on his face.

I threw myself into his arms without a word.

Whatever the connection between his mother and the Vances, it was clear my family had forgotten her. Not a single one of them had come to the funeral.

"Lucas, you must be exhausted, from now on, I'll be here. You won't have to be so tired anymore."

Something flickered in his eyes. He pinned me against the wall, his breath coming in ragged bursts as his mouth crashed down on mine.

He kissed me as if trying to absorb me into his very being.

His other hand snaked under the hem of my dress, his fingers digging into my hips, kneading them.

He was hurting me, but it felt like he was using the pain to exorcise his own demons.

He bit at my lips, a feral attempt to devour me whole. I kissed him back, meeting his desperation with my own, until my lungs screamed for air.

Suddenly, he pulled back, tilting my chin up to look at me. His expression had gone cold.

My body was a furnace of need. I instinctively pressed closer, wanting more of him, more of this raw, desperate love.

But his voice, when it came, was like ice, "Don't fall in love with me."