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The stone underfoot was cool, almost soothing as I followed Nash through the grand foyer. His footsteps echoed, a steady thrum. Then he paused, and for a moment, so did my breath. He turned, offering me a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Someone to meet," he said, gesturing toward an arched doorway leading to what I guessed was the kitchen. The scent of simmering garlic and herbs wafted out, and suddenly, my stomach was a traitor, growling its interest.
A plump woman with hair like spun silver and a man, her mirror in age and warmth, turned from a stove that looked like it belonged in a museum. Their smiles were like sunbreaks through storm clouds—unexpected and disarmingly genuine.
"Signora Maria, Signor Giuseppe, this is Celeste," Nash introduced, not without a note of pride in his voice.
"Benvenuta, cara," Maria greeted, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling me into a hug that smelled of tomatoes and unconditional acceptance. I stiffened, but only for a second, then something annoyingly like comfort seeped in.
"Uh, thanks," I managed as she released me, my voice a rough whisper. I wasn't used to kindness without strings attached.
"Ah, la nostra nuova artista!" Giuseppe exclaimed, shaking my hand with vigor. "Your art will breathe new life into this old house, si?"
"Sure, if I don't suffocate first," sarcasm laced my words.
My attention shifted as Nash spoke to them in fluent Italian, his tone gentle, respectful. The way he listened, nodded, and laughed at whatever joke Giuseppe shared—it was disarming. Fuck me, but it was almost endearing to see him interact without that aura of menace he wore like a favorite shirt.
"Everything okay?" he asked, turning back to me, his brow furrowed in something akin to concern.
"Perfect. Just realizing you might not be the total asshole I thought you were," I said, giving him a tight smile. "Might."
"Only time will tell," he answered, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he led me away, leaving behind the warmth of the kitchen for the unknown of the rest of the house.
I glanced back once, catching Maria's eye. She winked, and I couldn't help the reluctant grin that tugged at my lips. There was something about this place, something unsettlingly... nice. And that was perhaps the most terrifying thing about it.
"Your room," Nash announced, breaking through my thoughts. He gestured toward an open door, his voice void of any command, yet still somehow authoritative. The bastard had a way of doing that—making suggestions sound like orders wrapped in velvet.
"Great," I muttered, half-expecting gothic horrors or chains on the walls. Instead, the room was... understated. Neutral tones with just a hint of color, and a bed that looked like it could swallow me whole in comfort. The kind of place you'd hole up in to lick your wounds after life chewed you up and spit you out.
"Is it to your liking?" Nash asked, his brown eyes scanning my face for a reaction.
"Sure, if you're into the whole safe and cozy, 'I'm not planning to murder you in your sleep' vibe," I retorted, crossing my arms over my chest. "It's nice."
"Only the best for my Little Shadow," he replied, and damn him, it sounded genuine. That twisted part of me that had already been softening at the edges started to melt a little more. Fuck.
"Thanks," I mumbled, feeling awkward standing there with him towering over me, all protective and shit. It was hard to reconcile this gentle giant with the ruthless predator I knew lurked beneath the surface.
For a moment, I was too stunned to be pissed off. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of Camillas, my favorite flowers, their delicate petals scattered across the room like some kind of romantic cliché. It was like walking into one of those sappy scenes from a movie where the girl gets swept off her feet—except, in this case, the guy doing the sweeping was a fucking internet stalker.
"Figures you'd know about the flowers," I muttered under my breath, eyeing the array of art supplies set up by the window. Canvases leaned against the wall, begging to be splattered with paint, and there were enough pencils and sketchbooks to keep me busy for years.
Nash just shrugged, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. "You blogged about them once. Said they reminded you of resilience and beauty amidst adversity. Thought it might make you feel more at home."
"Great, so now you're quoting me to myself. Creepy and annoying." I tried to sound bored, but secretly, a part of me warmed at the thought he'd remembered something so specific. "What's next? You gonna recite my social security number?"
"Relax, Celeste. No social security numbers, I promise." He chuckled, crossing the room to fling open the windows, letting in a breeze that made the curtains dance. "I just want you to be comfortable."
"Comfortable, huh?" I snorted, dropping my bag on the bed with a thud. "Because being kidnapped and brought to a mansion in Italy is peak comfort goals for me."
"Kidnapped is such a strong word," he turned to face me. His brown eyes held a glimmer of something I couldn't quite place—amusement mixed with challenge. "Let's call it... an impromptu vacation."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't help a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Damn him for making this abduction borderline bearable.
"Admit it, you're impressed," Nash said, stepping closer. His proximity sent a jolt through me, reminding me he wasn't just some rich guy who liked to play savior—he was dangerous, lethal even. And yet, I found myself leaning in, drawn to the mystery that was Nash Rigby.
"Maybe." I allowed the word to hang between us, laced with grudging respect. "But if you think decking out a room with my favorite things is going to make me forget why I'm here, you've got another thing coming."
His voice was low, a soft rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. "But maybe you'll find something here that makes sticking around seem not so bad."
