Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 39: Get Out

Luciano didn’t move to leave right away. He stood there with her for a moment, the morning light catching in the platinum-blonde waves of his hair, casting long, geometric shadows across the plush ivory carpet. The house was still hushed, caught in that fragile, early hour where the world feels suspended, as if it were holding its breath alongside them.

​"Before we go down," he said softly, his voice a low vibration in the quiet. He wasn’t looking at her at first; instead, his gaze was fixed on the rumpled landscape of the bed where they had spent the night. "We make the bed."

​Eloise blinked, surprised—not by the words themselves, but by the tone. There was no command in it. No sharp edge of authority that usually colored his requests. Just a simple, inclusive "we," offered like an invitation into a shared ritual.

He reached for the sheets, his movements unhurried and almost reverent, as though this small, domestic act carried the weight of a sacred oath.

​She hesitated for only a heartbeat before stepping closer to the other side. She caught the edge of the black silk, helping him pull it taut. Their fingers brushed once, a brief, accidental contact that sent a quiet wave of warmth through her chest, grounding her in the present moment.

​They made the bed together in a companionable silence that felt more intimate than the night before. Luciano tugged the sheets with military precision, his large hands smoothing out every wrinkle as if he were preparing a surface for a masterpiece.

Eloise smoothed the pillows with less aggression than she felt, her mind still swirling with the ghosts of her dreams and the heat of his gaze.

​He folded the dark duvet with meticulous care, smoothing the surface like he was closing a high-stakes deal rather than finishing a mundane chore. She noticed then how particular he was—how nothing in his physical space was accidental. Every line was intentional; even the pillows were aligned with a symmetry that suggested a man who demanded order from chaos.

​When the last corner was tucked and the duvet lay flat as a frozen lake, Luciano straightened. He fixed her with that calm, possessive stare—the one that made her feel like a prize and a person all at once—and dropped a casual bomb into the silence.

​"I don’t like strangers entering my sanctuary," he said, his voice matter-of-fact, as if he were simply stating the weather. "I don’t want them touching my things, breathing my air, or seeing where I lay my head. Now that we share this space, I intend to keep it that way. This room remains our own."

​Eloise paused, a decorative pillow hugged to her chest. "You mean... we clean it ourselves? All of it?"

​He gave a single, elegant shrug, his bare shoulders rippling under the light. "Unless, of course, you prefer the idea of the maids lingering over your pillows, imagining the lives we lead behind these doors."

​She opened her mouth to argue, to say that yes, actually, she preferred the luxury of staff because who in their right mind wanted to make a bed the size of a small country every morning?

But the words died in her throat. She considered the alternative for half a second. The thought of strangers moving through their private debris—the sheets she slept in, the place where he had held her while she slept—made something uncomfortable and fiercely private twist in her stomach.

​Her hands gripped the pillow tighter. "No. I... I prefer to do it myself."

​"Good," he said, a sharp nod of approval. Then, as if it were a mere afterthought, he added, "Because I wouldn’t have allowed it anyway."

​Eloise arched an eyebrow, a spark of her old fire returning to her eyes. "Wait—you just—"

​"Offered you a choice?" His lips curved into a wicked, warm smirk. "I offered the illusion of one, Paloma. You chose correctly, which makes the reality much more palatable for both of us."

​She stared at him, indignation flaring bright and hot. "You manipulative, arrogant—"

​"Fiancé," he finished for her, closing the distance between them. He stepped close enough that she had to tilt her head back, her heart beginning that familiar, frantic dance against her ribs. "Yes. That’s me. I believe it’s in the contract."

​Then the weight of his words finally hit her. Her brain, sluggish from sleep and emotion, finally caught the nuance she had missed. She looked around the room—the muted champagne accents, the creamy ivory walls, the massive, custom-built canopy bed that felt more like a fortress.

​"Wait. Your room?" she said slowly, the realization dawning like a cold sunrise. "This is your master suite?"

​Luciano’s smirk deepened, dark and satisfied. "Why, but of course, Paloma. Did you think I’d let my fiancée sleep in a guest room like some temporary visitor?" He reached out, brushing a knuckle along her jawline, his touch light as a feather but heavy with intent. "You’ve been in my bed since the day I brought you home, Eloise. I simply made it... welcoming for you."

​The realization settled over her like warm, heavy water—equal parts flattering and terrifying.

​Ian’s words from that first day echoed in her mind: He had it redone. Something brighter. Softer. Warmer. He felt the previous palette was... inhospitable.

She had thought Luciano was just being a meticulous warden, creating a beautiful cage to contain his new acquisition. But the truth was far more intimate. He hadn’t just brought her into his house; he had brought her into his most private sphere from day one. He had claimed her before she even knew the rules of the game he was playing.

​She looked at him again—and caught the faint, triumphant smirk tugging at his mouth. He knew exactly where her thoughts had gone. She wanted to throw something at that smirk—something heavy, jagged, and preferably loud—but finding nothing within reach, she simply let out a sharp, frustrated huff.

​Refusing to process the implications, the embarrassment, or the strange, traitorous flutter in her chest, she muttered, "I’m going to shower," and fled toward the bathroom to wash off the scent of his arrogance.

​"Enjoy," he replied, his voice a smooth, low purr.

​She didn’t trust that tone. Not for a second.

​

​The bathroom was a cathedral of white marble and rising steam. Eloise felt the tension of the morning—the lingering ghosts of her family, the weight of the red diamond, and the shock of the shared bed—clinging to her skin like a second layer. She needed the water to drown out the noise of her own racing heart.

​She shut the heavy door firmly. No lock, of course—she had realized early on that locks were a luxury Luciano didn’t believe she required. This was his kingdom, after all. She peeled off the spaghetti-strap top, the cool air hitting her skin in a sharp contrast to the steam. Her thumbs were hooked into the waistband of her leggings, ready to push them down, when—

​The door groaned open.

​Luciano strolled in like he owned the very concept of privacy. He was already unbuckling his belt, his movements casual and fluid.

​Eloise let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-shriek. She yanked her leggings back up with frantic speed and clutched the discarded top to her chest, her face turning a shade of crimson that put the red diamond on her finger to shame.

​"LUCIANO!"

​She yelled the name, her voice echoing off the high-gloss tiles with enough force to vibrate the chandeliers three floors down. She was certain the maids in the kitchen heard the roar of her indignation.

​Luciano, who was already in the process of unzipping his pants, paused. He gave her the most innocently confused look a devastatingly handsome man could possibly manufacture.

​"What?" he asked, all wide-eyed, mock bewilderment.

​Eloise stared at him in utter disbelief, her chest heaving. "What do you think you’re doing?!"

​He glanced down at his hands—frozen on the zipper—then back at her, a look of dawning realization crossing his face, perfectly performed. He didn’t look embarrassed in the slightest. He looked delighted.

​"I am removing my pants, Paloma, to take a bath." He let the zipper slide the rest of the way down, the metallic sound sharp in the quiet room.

​Beat.

​"With you."

​The last two words were delivered with a slow, wicked grin that made her knees threaten mutiny.

​Eloise’s brain felt like it was short-circuiting. Her face ignited—scarlet from her collarbone to her hairline. She looked around wildly for a weapon, her eyes landing on the nearest object—a heavy, fancy glass bottle of what was probably five-hundred-dollar body wash sitting on the marble vanity. She snatched it and hurled it at his head with all her might.

​"GET OUT!"

​He ducked smoothly, the bottle whistling past his ear and bouncing harmlessly off the padded wall.

​"Now, now. No need for violence, cariño," he said, laughter finally threading his voice. "What’s wrong with bathing with my fiancée? It’s practically efficient."

​"Efficiency is not the point, you lecherous—!" she hissed, clutching the top tighter against her breasts.

​His gaze dropped deliberately, tracing the line of her shoulders and the way she was holding the fabric.

​"Oh," he murmured, his eyes darkening with pure, unadulterated mischief. "You’re shy. Still."

​He took a step closer, invading her space even in the vastness of the bathroom.

​"There’s no need. I’ve seen—" his voice dipped to a filthy, intimate whisper—"all of you. I’ve tasted you. I’ve made you come so hard you forgot your own name."

​Eloise felt the ground beneath her feet turn into liquid. She wanted the marble to open up and swallow her whole. The memory of his touch, so vivid and relentless, made her knees weak, but her pride—the only thing she had left—kept her upright.

​"That... that was different!" she stammered, the logic failing even as she said it.

​Luciano’s grin widened. He stepped out of his pants, standing there in nothing but his dark briefs, the dove tattoo on his chest practically mocking her with its peaceful imagery. "Besides, you’ve seen me half-naked. Fair’s fair. Let’s even the score. Let’s lose the modesty, Paloma. We’re past that."

​Eloise couldn’t take it. The smugness, the effortless way he dismantled her defenses, the sheer Luciano-ness of him was overwhelming.

She spun to the sink, twisted the gold tap to full blast, cupped both hands, and flung a massive wave of cold water straight at his face.

​"OUT! NOW!"

​The water splashed squarely against his features, dripping down from his hair to his nose and off his chin, matting his thick eyelashes. He stood there, stunned into silence for exactly one second.

​Then he laughed.

​Not the controlled, quiet chuckle he usually allowed himself in public. This was a real, head-thrown-back, full-bodied laugh that echoed off the marble and made something warm and dangerously soft unfurl in her chest. He looked like sin having the absolute time of its life.

​"You’re a firecat, Eloise," he murmured, wiping the water from his eyes with his forearm, his gaze burning with a new kind of intensity. "But remember... fire needs water to stay under control. And I’m not going anywhere."

​He took another step toward the massive, sunken tub, his eyes fixed on her with a challenge that made her heart do a frantic backflip. Eloise looked at the water, then at the man, and realized that in the house of Luciano, the only way to win was to stop fighting the inevitable.

​She huffed, turning her back to him, her shoulders slumped in a fake surrender. "You are a bully," she whispered.

​Seeing her truly flustered, Luciano decided to grant her a temporary reprieve. He wasn’t a total monster; he knew when to let the tension simmer.

​"Alright," he said, still chuckling, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. "I yield. For now."

​He backed toward the door, a trail of water following in his wake.

​"But Paloma?" His voice dropped, becoming velvet and dark once more. "You can’t hide from me forever. Not in this house. Not in that bed. And certainly not," he tapped his temple, "in here."

​The door closed softly behind him.

​Eloise stood frozen, her heart racing and her cheeks burning, water still dripping from her own hands. She looked at her reflection in the mirror—wild-eyed, flushed, her lips parted in a silent gasp. She looked... alive.

​Outside, Luciano leaned against the hallway wall, still chuckling softly to himself as he wiped his face with a discarded towel. Teasing her, he realized, might just become his new favorite indulgence.