Shivers did not run down your spine, nor did you flinch.

By the time the third one broke, you had stopped keeping track.

Through the sole open window, the usually calm waves of the Mediterranean lapped ferociously against the stone, almost matching the intensity of the emotions running rampant in the villa.

The same eternal blue waves, the sight of which never ceased to calm the storms within your mind, then mirrored the anger, the betrayal, the disappointment in his - as the land stood still, absorbing the hits as it had for centuries.

A cacophony of seagulls accompanied the restless sea that morning, the breeze drafting through the room comforting in a moment of crisis.

A moment that seemed to drag on for an eternity.

The voice he adored sliced through the expanse of the suite, calling him to his senses.

“Santino.”

He did not respond immediately.

Across the room, through the archway, as you watched from the edge of the claw bathtub you had taken a restless seat on, the mere sight of him in front of you continued to break your heart into a million pieces - or, at least, what was left of it.

You had hoped the retreat to your eminent domain, the villa he had donned his home would have aided the situation - yet, it only seemed to remind him of what could have been.

What was taken from him, by the very man that had given him this life.

Santino was disheveled. Distraught. Unconsolable. Words that you had never thought would describe the man you had grown to love more than you knew - he had been pacing, his body relentless.

His hand running through his dark curls as they trailed loosely on his forehead. His crisp shirt, still pressed, yet with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and more buttons undone than usual.

Breathing getting heavier by the minute as the realization dawned gradually, the implications rampant in his mind.

No watch. No signet ring. No theatrics this time, no one to impress.

Just his darkened emerald stare, once quick with reaction and wit, now carried a desperate, faint sheen.

His mouth that never ceased to curl up in that sly smile only reserved for you, unable to escape the frown.

An antique painting half ruined by fire - fraying at the edges in black ash, yet the beauty ever withstanding.

“Everyone knows it should have been me.”

The same words spoken so certainly left his mouth not for the first time in the days that followed the reckoning.

They kept echoing like a mantra, etched on the very walls of the estate, repeated as if Santino had been trying to console himself from a bad dream.

However, sleep had not come easy for the past couple of days.

“It was always going to be me.”

A frustrated sigh escaped his lips, as his hand ran over his face, over the slight stubble he had not bothered to shave for the past two days.

Then, his eyes lifted to meet yours across the distance, green orbs rimmed with red softened against the concern that lingered in your own.

The shards cracked under his polished shoes as his steps took him into the adjacent bathroom, towards you - towards the only truth he knew.

Fear had not been an emotion he could illicit within you - the defeated gaze in his eyes that seemed to only shimmer with hope when you looked into them proved it so.

And, as you had many times, you would attempt to comfort the storm raging in his chest once again.

Something you had once vowed to do.

The white silk robe wrapped around your body, flowing like water as you rose, hands reaching out to beckon his in.

“Lo so, amore.”

His breath, for a moment, seemed to hitch faintly at your words, as though their simplicity struck deeper than the wound he had inflicted upon himself.

His soles echoing on the stone, just steps before reaching your touch, decided to change trajectory.

“Do you?” he would ask and rather make his stride towards the wide vanity that encompassed an entire wall. The windows on the far end of the room shone light over him in a stark contrast with the darkness of his mind.

“Do you know what it is like, to be promised a future so clear, ever since you were a small child running through the halls of this house?”

You did not take offense but instead, opted to let him try and find his peace. Your hands lowered to your sides, head tilted as you listened.

“To be told, constantly, that you are the one, the only, the heir to behold - and it all vanishes with a single word.”

He would then turn the faucet on and splashed his face with the coldest water, as if trying to wake himself up.

Instinct guided you towards him, a pull so inherent that you could almost touch his heat emanating through his tired body.

“Santino,” you would softly yet steadily remind him, a land laying on his back, feeling his muscles tense over the fabric upon contact.

“You are still your father’s son. You still command an empire of men.”

A bitter laugh emanated from his lips, meeting your gaze through the expansive mirror with his hands clasped against the vanity’s marble, droplets making their lazy trail downwards to his open collar.

“And what did that bring me? A name, amore. Nothing more.”

Pressing a once neatly folded towel to his face, he would then run his damp hands through his curls, pushing the locks off of his forehead.

“A name without power, is nothing but dust.”

You found it in yourself to counter slowly, your voice holding weight like an anchor. Your touch trailed down from his back, to shoulder, down to the exposed skin of his forearm.

“There is still a vote. You know that Gianna does not want this. She never has.”

A hollow, humorless laugh followed.

“And yet she was chosen. Chosen by the only one whose choice mattered.”

His words hung in the air, almost as if fogging up the mirrors with the betrayal, the disappointment that coated them.

Delicate hands made their way to lay over the back of his larger one bracing the marble, one still anchoring him on his back as you leaned in to whisper.

“But, I chose you.”

Those words, drifting so naturally, so elegantly off of your lips reflected the truth. It was those words that made Santino loosen his grip on the vanity, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly, his gaze turning rather sharply to lock his green gaze into yours. His lips slightly agape, desperation clinging into his expression.

“Tell me,” he started, voice breathy.

He did not need to speak - those eyes laid bare the very secrets of his soul he had hidden from everyone, only reserved for your presence.

Even when undone, at his most vulnerable, there was a tragic beauty that exuded within him.

“Tell me you will still be here.”

A breath caught in your throat, a slight gasp managing to escape your lips before his hands embraced your jaw, moving in for a sudden yet welcome kiss.

A moan reverberated through his flesh, your hands holding onto his taut chest in an attempt to steady yourself.

As his lips claimed yours with unprecedented hunger, the taste of whiskey lingering on his tongue that dominated yours with ease. The desperation seeped into your very skin as his hands worked fervently to untie your robe, to lower the lace chemise underneath.

His body pressed to gently lead you against the mosaic wall, in such contrast to his needy touch.

Just a man trying to claim what he was afraid the world would strip away from him.

And you, you could not resist - he had made it hard to each time. The salt and bergamot faint on his skin enhanced your desire, your fingers would then reciprocate his advances, as they unbuttoned his shirt rather unceremoniously.

“Tell me you will always be mine.”

To him, you were all that mattered in space and in time - the only grounding anchor, the sole source of light at the end of a dark tunnel. Santino’s hands clung to your bare hips as if holding onto dear life, as if letting go would cause his demise.

“Perhaps, it is you, amore. Solo tu.”

His nimble hands that often took their time memorizing every inch, were not so patient then as one took the liberty to slide down your panties, fingers grazing over where you had wanted him the most.

And, at that instant, the betrayal of his legacy was not the only one that entrapped your conscious. Especially in the most shameful corners of your mind.

The memory of his steel-blue eyes brushed against you for a fleeting moment - forbidden, distant yet jarring.

The mere thought of him jolted you unexpectedly, forcing yourself back into the warmth of Santino’s arms before it could have a chance to ever linger, a fevered urgency in your grip.

“You are all that I need.”

A heartfelt nod, lips swollen and agape as his forehead pressed against yours.

It was true. It had been true. It would always be true.

The look in your eyes was the only permission he had needed as his finger effortlessly slipped into your folds, sending your back arching for him.

Santino’s kisses then trailed down your throat, teeth grazing your collarbone in pure claim.

Trembling hands made their way onto his belt, as his fingers worked their skillful rhythm against you for moments to come. His other hand found the soft swell of your breast, his touch as delicate as it was desperate.

“Non mi lasciare, amore,” he would murmur in Italian against your neck, finally released from the confinements of his clothes. His once occupied hand would leave you whimpering as he turned your body to face the steadying cool of the mosaic, and replaced his fingers slowly with just what you had yearned for.

His thrusts began unevenly, his rhythm almost overtaken by emotion. A hand pulling your hips towards his, yours resting on the crystal-blue tiles as your form arched with such grace that mirrored the restless sea.

The more your moans mixed in with his, with the salt and sweat in the air, the more his restraint slipped, need overtaking his grief until each movement felt like a silent proof.

Proof that he had not lost everything. Proof that he still had you.

The speed, the cadence of his relentless touch were demonstrations of pure and raw need.

Your name on his tongue, echoing off of the very corners of the room, his damp curls clinging to his forehead from exertion - as though touching, claiming every inch of your body pulled him further into reality.

And in the aftermath, where both of your cries of pleasure mixed in to accompany the crashing waves and howling mid-day wind, when the gasps and sighs making your chests heave softened - silence claimed the room once again.

His forehead found the crook of your neck, where it had always fit just right. Breath ragged, his lips trailing lazy patterns of fleeting kisses along your shoulder.

“Sei mia,” he would whisper, voice rough, more of a plea than a claim this time.

You are mine.

His arms wrapped around you, with the hold of a man clinging onto the very thing that kept him alive.

Eyes closed, riding the lingering drops of pleasure still, you would lean and let your head rest on his chest.

“Sempre.”

And, although you whispered back just the words he needed, the words that always came from your heart - you had found that the vow settled heavier in your throat than before.

As the words left your lips, in the dark corners of your mind, another man’s faint voice echoed beneath it.

——

molly's waking up most morning's feeling awful, but she knows that if she drags herself into the office the headaches and nausea will ease. she's not sure whats causing them—her first thought was mold, but she had the apartment checked and there was none. she put a few of the candles her secret admirer gave her into storage in case she was allergic (a shame, really, she was rather fond of the scent) and aired out her bedroom, but that only helped for the one night. she has a doctor's appointment soon. hopefully they can pinpoint what's causing this.

in the meantime, she gets up early. goes to work. ducks into her secret office partway through the day to let out her frustrations. comes home late. loses her temper. the reason escapes her as soon as she's done (she thinks max shorted out the microwave. she can't believe he'd be so irresponsible, he should know better by this point). she takes something for her headache. admires the gifts from her secret admirer, appreciates the thrill being admired gives her. goes to bed. wonders if she overreacted, if overreacting makes her a bad mother. dreams of eating purple gelatin.

——

max is doing fine, and if steel could stop asking him that, that would be fantastic!

(he hates being in the apartment. it stinks something awful, and he's pretty sure its because of those stupid "gifts", but the last time he tried to get rid of them his mom got really mad upset at him for touching her things.)

he's max steel! he can handle himself!

(she was right, he should have known better. he just. wasn't thinking. he'll do better next time.)

if everyone would just stop talking about his mom—!

(—oh. he didn't mean to do that. sorry.)

(….)

(…ow. his head is killing him.)

——

steel is one chat with forge ferrus away from killing someone. potentially molly. he's not sure what's gotten into her and max recently, but he'd like it to get out. they've both been so irritable lately, its driving him up a wall!

he thought secret admirers were supposed to be sweet! that they were supposed to bring joy to the subject of their admiration! ever since this one came into the picture, they've done nothing but make the mcgraths miserable.

molly, when steel bothers to truly look at her, was looking rough. there was a pallor to her skin that didn't go away no matter how much she slept. her expression seemed dazed when it wasn't alert with rage (always at the tiniest of things, always for just a minute, always gone the moment max showed he was scared). her best days of late seemed to be the ones where she retired straight to her room with scarcely a 'hello'.

though it was hard to care about molly when he’s been busy trying to convince max that no, things are not in fact normal. even if steel pretended that nothing was going on with molly (which was hard to do once he noticed they'd both started to listen for the sound of the front door unlocking), even if he pretended that max was always this tense, always this eager to pick fights, there was something physically wrong. max's turbo energy levels have been randomly spiking these past couple weeks, and the only pattern steel can see is that they're getting worse.