Chapter 4: Eden

The door creaks open slowly. And there he is. Salvatore steps inside with that calm, unshakable energy he always carries like a second skin. He shuts the door quietly behind him. I don’t hear the lock click over the music, but I feel it. Like the bass deepened. Like something shifted.

His eyes are on mine. Dark, unreadable.

Refusing to look anywhere else, like he’s clinging to some shred of discipline.

But I see it.

That pull.

That hunger.

He steps closer—slow, deliberate—until he’s right behind me. The crisp edge of his tailored suit grazes my bare skin, sending a ripple of heat down my spine. And there it is again—that scent. Cedar, clove… and him.

Spicy. Masculine. Dangerous. I inhale him like oxygen. My body starts moving again on instinct—soft, rolling, slow. I arch my back slightly and grind against him, my hips catching the rhythm, rubbing against the hard length pressed against his slacks.

He still won’t look down. Those hollow eyes of his—always so detached—are brimming now. With lust. With restraint. With everything he’s tried to hide from me.

It’s thrilling.

I keep dancing, not saying a word, just letting my body do what it knows. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t stop me. And somehow, that’s worse. Better. Perfect.

I tilt my head just enough to whisper over my shoulder, my voice like smoke:

“Something you wanted?”

His jaw tightens. Still, no words. But his hand brushes the curve of my hip—barely there. Just a ghost of contact. Like he’s touching fire. Like he knows it’ll ruin him.

Good.

I want it to ruin him.

I want him to burn.

Just like I do.

And tonight, he came to me. He can’t leave now. He can’t ever leave. I turn in his arms—slowly, fluidly—facing him, my chest brushing his suit jacket as I tilt my chin up to meet those tortured eyes.

Still, he says nothing. But I can feel the storm behind his silence. I take his hand without asking and guide him backward, step by step, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of my bed. He doesn’t resist. Not even a little.

“Sit,” I whisper.

He does.

I straddle him without hesitation, my bare skin brushing the fine fabric of his slacks, the heat between us simmering—boiling.

His hands stay clenched at his sides like he’s punishing himself, trying not to touch me.

Trying not to lose.

But I already know I’ve won.

The music rolls on in the background—slow, heavy, full of desire—and I move with it.

My hips begin to circle, grinding into his lap with deliberate control.

My hands slide up my own body, then tangle in his hair.

I lean in, lips close enough to graze his—but I don’t kiss him.

I want him to beg for it.

To break.

His breath is ragged now, his chest rising and falling with something he’s fought for years.

I can see it—all of it.

And God, it makes me feel powerful.

I lean closer, letting my lips graze the shell of his ear.

“Still not looking?” I whisper.

That’s when it snaps.

In one sharp, sudden motion, he grabs me by the waist—strong hands, unforgiving—and lifts me off of him.

I gasp, half-shocked, half-thrilled.

He turns me around and walks me backward until I’m facing the mirror.

The one above my dresser.

The one where I’d been dancing for myself moments ago.

He stands behind me again—closer this time, his grip firm on my hips.

Our eyes meet in the glass.

And this time…

He looks.

He really looks.

At my body.

At what he’s tried so hard to ignore.

At what’s already his, whether he admits it or not.

We don’t speak.

We just stare.

And in that moment—

I know he’s ruined.

And so am I.

I press back against him harder, letting my body do the talking. He doesn’t move this time—but I can feel him holding himself still like a loaded gun. I turn to face him, searching those goddamn guarded eyes.

“Eden—” he tries again, his voice tight.

“I want you,” I repeat, firmer now. Like a promise. Like a threat.

He steps back, like he needs distance to keep his self-control. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m high,” I snap. “And I know what I want.”

He shakes his head. “No. Eden, this is—this isn’t—” he stumbles. “It’s not appropriate.”

“Fuck appropriate.” My voice rises. “You think I care about that? You think any of you do? You kill people, Salvatore. You bury bodies and call it business. You move money soaked in blood, and you want to pull a morality card now?”

He doesn’t say anything.

I step toward him again, shoving his chest with the flat of my palm. “But I’m the disgrace. Because I dance too close, wear a short dress, take a hit, say what I want—want who I want.”

He catches my wrist. Not hard. Just enough to still me.

“You’re not a disgrace,” he says, low. “You’re not nothing, Eden.”

“Then why,” I breathe, “do you look at me like I’m poison? Like you’ll catch something if you want me back?”

“Because you’re my family,” he says quietly.

“We’re not family.” My voice shakes, and it’s not from the high. “Not by blood. Not by loyalty. Not by anything. I don’t know you. You don’t try to know me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” I shove his hand off me. “You keep your distance. You always have. Since we were kids. Like I disgust you. Like I’m too loud or too wild or too broken to even look at.”

“I never thought that—”

“You think I don’t notice the way you look away?” My voice breaks now, sharp and aching. “You think I don’t feel it every time you walk out of a room just because I walked in?”

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. So I fill the silence for him.

“Why are you here, Salvatore?” I ask. “Why come to my room? Why lock the fucking door if you didn’t want to see me like this?”

He flinches.

“I’m not ashamed of wanting you,” I whisper. “But you… you look at me like it’s a sin.”

His breath is ragged now. His hands curl into fists at his sides.

“Then why would you want me?” he suddenly yells, voice cracking open like a wound. “Why?”