Page 24 of Freed
“Elizabeth…” I murmur, her name scraping out of me.
My body doesn’t care that she isn’t here. It remembers her too well. Every breath. Every shiver. Every broken little sound she used to make when I had her beneath me. The thought of her out there now—breathing, living, existing without me—sends something hot and violent through my blood.
“Fuck,” I pant into the silence.
It’s not enough. It will never be enough.
Because she’s still out there. Still beyond my reach. Still pretending there’s a world where she gets to walk away from me and never look back.
The thought burns like acid.
No. There is no version of this where I let her stay gone.
I surge to my feet so fast the chair scrapes violently behind me, the sound sharp and savage in the silence. Italy. The word settles into my bones like a vow. Like fate finally turning its face toward us.
My gaze hardens. Something cold and relentless locking into place inside me.
Because this time, I’m coming for her.
And when I find her, she is not getting away again.
7
Birdie
I had a cat that could tell the weather was about to change when I was little. She’d look up at the sky and meow for hours until it started raining or snowing. Today, I feel like that cat. There’s something in the air that has me on edge. And I don’t know what it is.
The day passes as all the others. Breakfast with Teresa, lunch and dinner rush, but Dante arrives just before closing. He usually doesn’t come on Tuesdays.
He surprises me by saying, “We should go to Bari tonight. For dinner.”
I glance up at him, thrown. “Why?”
He lifts a shoulder casually. “Do I need a reason to take a friend out for dinner?”
“No.” I wipe my hands on my apron, though they’re not really dirty. “But my gut says this is more than dinner.”
His lips twitch at that, just enough to confirm I’m not wrong.
“Indeed,” he says. “Be ready by seven. And wear a dress. The place we’re going has a dress code.”
Something flutters in my chest and for a brief, reckless second, I feel… normal.
“I don’t have a dress,” I call after him.
“There’s one in your room,” he tosses back, already heading for the door.
I blink, then look over at Teresa, who’s smiling like she’s been in on this the whole time.
“He’s up to something, isn’t he?” I ask.
She just hums, stirring her coffee, her eyes dancing with quiet amusement.
I exhale slowly, pressing a hand to my stomach without thinking. Excitement buzzes under my skin. The idea of getting dressed up, of sitting at a table with candlelight and conversation that isn’t whispered or careful… it pulls at something in me I thought I’d buried.
But the feeling doesn’t come alone.
It never does.
