Page 69 of Torn By Fate

Not once. Not even the briefest glance or a flicker of acknowledgement.

His gaze remained fixed on the floor, head slightly bowed. At first I had thought it was avoidance or perhaps discomfort. But slowly, I came to realize that maybe… it was… respect.

Rocco never looked directly into my eyes, never held my gaze, never allowed his attention to linger on my face longer than necessary.

Because I wasn’t simply Serafina to him.

I was Adrian Salvatore’s wife. The woman who belonged to The Reaper.

And that distinction mattered to a man like Rocco.

In our world, titles weren’t decorative. Names weren’t just… names. They had purpose, terrible and bloodied meanings most of the time, but boundaries that were understood without ever needing to be spoken aloud.

He crossed the room to where Adrian stood by the kitchenette and set a sealed envelope into his hand before turning on his heel and walking back out.

The entire exchange lasted maybe four seconds. No words. No direct eye contact.

It was so strange to me, watching their interactions. Adrian obviously trusted this man, more than he would let on, but I couldn’t understand their silence, their unspoken words.

I watched Adrian turn the envelope over in his hands. His thumb traced the edge of the seal before he dropped it on the coffee table and then walked to me with the cup in his hand.

He set the herbal tea on the nightstand beside me without a word, the ceramic clicking softly against the wooden surface.

“Drink it,” he said, a soft command. “It’ll help.”

I didn’t touch the cup. He didn’t tell me again.

It was a quiet understanding, almost like a silly truce. He pushed, I pushed back, he relented.

“Did you find out who it is?” I asked. My voice came out rougher than I intended, the words scraping against the bruised tissue of my throat like sandpaper. “The person who wants me dead.”

Adrian stood at the edge of the bed, his hands at his sides. For a moment, he didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the window, and the corner of his mouth tightened, his eyes narrowing in the slightest.

“No,” he said finally, refusing to pretend like he had an answer. At least I knew he would always be honest with me, no matter how cruel it was. “I haven’t.”

I waited. He didn’t elaborate.

“You killed three men,” I whispered in accusation before my voice grew louder in frustration. “You have resources. Connections. An entire family built on knowing things before anyone else knows them. And you’re telling me you don’t know who sent them?” I pressed. “You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?”

He turned toward me, and the honesty in his eyes was almost worse than a lie would have been. “I don’t know, Serafina. I have too many people who want me dead to narrow it down to one.”

His lips twisted bitterly. “It could be anyone. The list is long, and it’s getting longer. Narrowing it down takes time.”

“Time,” I echoed. The word tasted acrid on my tongue. “How much time do I have before the next one shows up?”

His jaw tightened, the carefully composed expression almost cracking. “You won’t be alone again.”

“That’s not what I asked,” I argued back, stubbornly.

The conversation made my stomach turn, nausea building in my throat. How could this be a normal life? How could this conversation be so… casual, like we were discussing something entirely ordinary. Like having an endless roster of people who wanted to kill you was simply the cost of doing business.

I pulled the comforter higher, my fingers twisting in the plush softness. “Do you find this life fulfilling?”

Adrian stilled. The question surprised him. It wasn’t something he had expected me to ask about him.

“Fulfilling,” he repeated, testing the word.

“This life,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the room, my voice steady despite the ache in my throat. “Killing people. Making enemies. Having strangers who want you dead. Living every day knowing that someone, somewhere, is plotting your destruction. Does that fulfill you, Adrian? Does any of that feel like it’s worth it?”