Page 55 of Broken Crown

His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, revealing a warmth that was increasingly rare in this world of sharp edges and sharper intentions.

I slipped my arms into the sleeves of Sebastian’s oversized suit jacket.

Seeing how the sleeves reached far past my fingertips, he chuckled and turned me toward him. "Let me."

I tried to pull back. "It will ruin the suit."

He raised an eyebrow before grasping my wrist, his fingers warm against my night-chilled skin.

Keeping his intense gaze on me, he slowly rolled up each sleeve.

The gentle brush of his fingertips against my pulse points sent unwanted electricity through my veins.

His touch was deliberate, almost reverential, so at odds with the violence I knew those same hands were capable of.

The intimacy of the gesture touched me more than any grand display of power ever could.

When he finished, he returned his arm to my lower back and gestured to the colorful display. "What would you like, little one?"

I shook my head. In no mood to fight or discuss the drama which had just unfolded, I didn't even want the independence of deciding a gelato flavor.

I was overwrought and worn down. But even exhaustion could be a tool. Let him believe he'd finally broken through my defenses. A man like Sebastian would lower his guard for a woman he thought had stopped fighting.

"You decide."

His shoulders dropped a fraction when I said it, the tight line of his jaw softening for half a second before he caught himself and locked it all back down. But I'd seen it. What I hadn't expected was the ease of the surrender. How much I wanted it to be real.

In Italian, he held up two fingers to the vendor and said, "Prenderemo pistacchio, nocciola e cioccolato."

The man beamed as he nodded.

Holding two large sugar cones in his hand at once, he dipped the metal scoop into the green gelato, which I knew was pistachio, then with expert precision, he added what I assumed, because of the garnish, was hazelnut. Then, seeming to defy the laws of physics and gravity, he added a third flavor—chocolate. And finally, he topped off both cones with a thin waffle wafer.

When he handed me the top-heavy confection, it seemed like I didn’t have a care in the world in that moment, a brief giggle emerging along with my thanks.

We walked around in companionable silence, blending in with the tourists, eating our gelato.

The first taste on my tongue was a revelation, creamy beyond anything American ice cream could achieve, with a density that somehow remained ethereally light.

I couldn't help the appreciative moan that escaped my lips. It truly was incredible.

The pistachio was nutty and complex, not overly sweet but deeply satisfying. The hazelnut added richness that complemented the subtle bitterness of the dark chocolate.

Each flavor was distinct yet harmonious, much like the city itself—ancient and modern, sacred and profane, contradictions that somehow made perfect sense in the moment.

Around us, the night air carried snippets of a dozen different languages, the occasional burst of laughter, and from somewhere distant, the plaintive notes of a street musician's violin playing a familiar Italian melody.

A group of visitors sang along drunkenly as they passed, attempting to match the notes of the violin.

The stone buildings surrounding the piazza held these sounds close, creating an acoustic phenomenon that was uniquely Roman.

Soon, my eyelids grew heavy.

The drama of the evening.

The wine I had drunk.

My dash through the streets of Rome.