Chapter 151: Lonely Hearts

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The words came out thick, and I hated how my voice trembled because I was never a fan of crying in front of others.

Crying made my nose run, my face swell, made my face look even more stupid and I ended up losing my ability to come up with snarky comments...definitely not a fun combination.

But I couldn’t stop.

"I’m sorry, Dracula. I’m so...so sorry."

Lorenzo’s hands hovered uncertainly at his sides, as if he didn’t know how to handle someone clinging to him and apologizing for something he hadn’t done.

"Bello, what—"

"I’m sorry about your mother," I interrupted, tightening my grip around him. "I’m sorry about Calypso, and I’m sorry you had to endure all of that as a child. I knew your mother was gone, but I didn’t know how it happened, I didn’t even care to find out sooner! I didn’t know you had a little sister, and I couldn’t begin to imagine you watching her die before you even got to grow up."

My voice cracked on the last part, and I pressed my face harder against his back, wishing I could hide long enough for my emotions to pack up and leave.

They didn’t.

I continued, my words spilling out faster now that I had started. "You were just fourteen, Dracula! You should’ve been concerned about silly things, like whether you looked cool in front of your friends or if you could sneak in past curfew. You shouldn’t have been risking everything for your mother’s life, and you definitely shouldn’t have been handed a knife and told to become a killer!"

I swallowed hard, the ache in my throat intensifying.

"And you were never the monster they claimed you were."

Lorenzo’s breath hitched.

I felt it against my cheek, a tiny disruption in the usual rhythm of his breathing, and my hand instinctively traveled across his stomach until my fingertips brushed one of the scars on his side.

His muscles tensed beneath my touch, and for a moment, we both stood still.

My tears soaked through his shirt, which was unfortunate for both his expensive attire and my remaining dignity, but at that point, neither mattered much to me.

"And Dante is a fool," I added fiercely. "An absolute, spectacular, stupid dumbass! I don’t give a damn if he was grieving, or angry, or whatever excuse he’s using to rationalize saying those things to you. You were trying to save your mother. How could any of that possibly be your fault?"

I took a shaky breath, but it did little to ease my distress.

"They all wanted you to be a monster, and then acted surprised when you learned to be terrifying. Honestly, this family ought to invest in therapy. A whole lot of therapy!"

Under different circumstances, Lorenzo might’ve chuckled at that.

But he didn’t laugh now; his hands finally settled over mine, holding them against his stomach.

"I’m glad you said that," I whispered, the fury in my voice softening to something more vulnerable. "I’m so damn glad you shared with me, Dracula. I know it couldn’t have been easy, and I understand you don’t usually discuss these things.... I can’t pretend to know how to fix anything, but I’m really grateful you trusted me enough to let me see this part of you."

For a few seconds, he stayed motionless.

Then he carefully turned in my arms.

I loosened my grip just enough to let him face me, and the sight of his expression nearly shattered what the story had begun.

Lorenzo looked genuinely taken aback, as though he had anticipated my silence would lead to a polite excuse to leave and had no clue how to cope with the fact that I was standing there, stark naked, tears streaming, and seemingly ready to confront his entire family for a boy I had never even met.

His gaze swept over my face, lingering on my wet cheeks, and something in his expression softened.

"Oh, love," he said softly.

He lifted his hands to cup my face, his thumbs brushing underneath my eyes, catching the tears that continued to fall despite my desperate attempts to regain some composure.

"Don’t cry, my love," he whispered. "It’s all in the past."

I looked up at him through my tears.

He didn’t believe that.

Maybe part of him wanted to believe it, and perhaps he had told himself that enough times that it had become easier to say than face the truth, but the pain remained.

I could see it in the way his fingers lingered on my skin, in how carefully he breathed, and in the instinctive step back he had attempted only moments ago.

The past was still alive inside him.

It surfaced every time he tightened his grasp on something he feared losing, every time he thought that keeping me safe meant making decisions for me, and every time he looked at those he loved as if the world might snatch them away as soon as he blinked.

I didn’t voice any of that.

Instead, I covered one of his hands with mine and leaned into his palm.

Lorenzo pulled me closer until our foreheads touched, his eyes fluttering shut briefly as if he needed the connection as much as I did.

"It doesn’t matter anymore," he said, quieter this time. "I have you now, and you have me. That’s all I need to keep moving forward."

Those words were meant to soothe me, but I suspected they also served as reassurance for himself.

I wanted to argue that it still mattered, that the things we endure don’t simply vanish because someone loves us afterward, and that having me in his life couldn’t magically erase the little boy left holding his mother’s blood on his hands.

But I understood his intention.

He was offering me the future he’d fought so hard to reach, the one where he could embrace someone without immediately bracing for their departure.

Maybe he wasn’t entirely there yet, but for the first time, I could see him trying.

So I rose onto my toes and kissed him.

It was a slow, tender kiss, nothing like the heated, desperate ones we’d shared earlier.

There wasn’t any urgency, no demand for more, and no need to turn our closeness into a distraction from the difficult truths we’d just unearthed.

I simply held his face between my hands and kissed him as if to convey that I was still here, that I heard every single word, and none of it made me want to leave.