The sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Hayden's penthouse, casting golden streaks across the rumpled sheets. The scent of sex still lingered in the air, tangled with the faint smell of his cologne and her perfume.
Ana blinked awake slowly, her body sore in places she hadn't realized could ache.
For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then she turned her head—and saw him.
Hayden sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, the sharp lines of his back glowing in the sunlight. He hadn't noticed she was awake yet. His head was bowed slightly, one hand gripping his phone, the other pressed to his temple like he was battling demons.
She remembered everything.
The fight. The way he touched her like he owned her. The brutal way her heart had pounded as he took control. The heat, the surrender. Her own treacherous desire.
The way she whispered his name like a secret she didn't want to keep.
Ana sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around her naked body. Her voice was soft but pointed.
"You always disappear after you get what you want?"
He turned his head, those cold, unreadable eyes pinning her in place. But his voice wasn't mocking. It wasn't cruel.
It was tired.
"I don't sleep much."
Ana studied him, carefully. "Nightmares?"
He gave a humorless smile. "Not exactly. Just memories."
She didn't say anything. She knew that kind of pain. The kind that sank its claws into you and never let go. The kind that waited for the silence to strike.
Hayden stood up and poured himself a drink. Scotch. At 8 a.m.
"A bit early, don't you think?" she asked, arching a brow.
"I don't measure time the way normal people do," he said. "In my world, time is just a countdown. Until someone betrays you. Or someone dies."
He took a sip, his jaw tight.
"You talk like you've already buried everyone you cared about."
"I have."
Ana swallowed hard. "Except me."
He didn't respond. Just looked at her.
There was something in his eyes—something raw, on the edge of vulnerability. But it vanished too quickly. Replaced by steel.
"You were never supposed to matter," he said. "But you do."
It was the closest thing to a confession she'd ever get from Hayden Moretti.
She rose from the bed slowly, letting the sheet fall. She didn't cover herself. She stood bare in front of him, bold, defiant.
"You used me."
He didn't flinch.
"And you liked it."
Her body burned at the truth of it.
She crossed the room to him, placed a hand flat on his chest. His heart thudded beneath her palm, strong and fast. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"If you're going to destroy me, Hayden, do it properly. Don't halfway burn me."
His mouth crushed hers again. This kiss was different—desperate, possessive. Like he was drowning in her and didn't care. He lifted her off the ground, carried her to the counter, laid her across the cold marble. His hands were everywhere—rough, demanding, worshipping.
She gasped as his mouth trailed down her body, teeth scraping along the sensitive skin of her hip.
"You want me to ruin you?" he whispered. "Say it."
"Yes."
And he did.
Again.
And again.
---
Later, when the city had fully woken and the haze of desire had lifted, Ana stood at the window in one of his shirts, staring down at Rome.
Hayden stepped behind her, sliding his arms around her waist.
"You're not a prisoner anymore," he murmured.
"But I'm still not free," she said.
He didn't argue.
Because it was true.
There was no freedom left in either of them.
Only each other.
And the war still waiting.