With All My Love And More

I think we're famous

"I'm being a scaredy cat," I whispered, biting my lip, my fingernails pressing into the skin of my hand.

Gino moved away from the door frame, the guards closing the door behind him as he approached me. He bent down to me, dropping to one knee as he took my hands in his, pressing a soft kiss against my skin. "There is nothing wrong with being a scaredy cat, fiore. You are who you are." He brushed his fingers against my cheeks before absentmindedly tucking a phantom hair over my ear. A subconscious thing I've noticed he does regardless of whether my hair is down or up, in my face or not. I found it endearing. Cute. "The world is too cruel for you, Chance, but you know where I stand. You know my feelings for you. I belong to you, fiore. Whether you wish to own my heart or not, I am yours, and because of that, I will protect you body and soul. As long as I breathe, nothing will hurt you." He pressed a soft kiss against my forehead, and I swear, I could hear the whole opera house hold their breath. "Your feelings, your body, your essence is as important, if not more important than my own, and therefore any attack on you is an attack on me."

All the air left my body, the room, hell, it left all of Italy to Gino's words.

How could he so easily say such deep words.

It was like a greeting to him.

So effortless.

Easy.

How could he open his heart so easily like this with me, and here I was, still unable to tell him my own feelings.

"Didn't I tell you not to do that," I whispered, turning my head away from him, covering my face with both of my hands. I could hear him let out a chuckle as his large hand clasped both my wrists and pulled them down so that he could see me clearly. I just knew I was glowing red from his words. "How is it so natural for you?"

"It's easy to be natural, fiore," he whispered, his other hand that wasn't still holding my wrist took hold of my chin and tilted my head so that I was face his direction. "When it comes to you." My eyes flung open, and in that moment, they locked with his pools of raw and confident feelings.

I had had men confess themselves to me before, but never like this, never so blindingly true.

Before I could stop myself, I threw myself into his arms, burying my face into the crook of his neck, taking in his scent along with the warmth of his body. "Oh Gino." The lights dimmed, once, twice, three times, letting the audience know that the show was to begin. Gino rose to his feet, his arms still tightly wound around me. He didn't even flinch when the opera house filled with "ooh" and "awws," the audience no longer caring that they were being obvious while watching us.

"I think we're famous," he whispered, winking at me.

I blushed, burying my face into his chest, "Shut up," I mumbled.

The lights dimmed, much to my comfort. Gino led me to my seat and took his own once I was seated. He brought his chair close to mine so that we could hold each other's hands, our knees pressing against one another, finding comfort in soft touches. "May I stay the night with you," he whispered, the lights on the stage ignited as my eyes snapped to his, as my breath hitched. The look in his eyes made my heart flutter, knowing those eyes and his intentions held nothing cruel. He only wished to be around me, to be in my presence, and to be perfectly honest, so did I, in every way possible.

"Yes."

And just like that the opera began, and our fingers interlocked, dragging our eyes reluctantly away from one another and to the stage, but I knew, I knew that night, the only thing we could think about was each other. I could tell in the way my eyes would absentmindedly drift away from the stage and to Gino's profile, or when Gino would casually trace my name on my thigh with the tip of his finger. Or the way he would pretend he couldn't see the stage very well, even though the royal box allowed for an uninterrupted view of the stage, but he would lean over to me feigning that his view was blocked, only for him to gently trace his soft lips against the curve of my right ear.

It wasn't only us that were admiring us, though. From time to time, a head in the crowd of people in other boxes or in the orchestra seating would turn their attention to us. They thought they were so subtle, but when pockets of people would turn at the same time, pockets of people in various parts of the room, it was hard not to notice. Gino seemed unphased by it, either transfixed by the opera or stroking my palm.

After all, this, all of this, the gawking and admiring, was a normal thing for him. He must be so used to it, like breathing and walking. My eyes went back to the stage, the passion filling the prima donna making me forget about the eyes on us. The opera was Tosca and from what Gino had told me, it was one the most breathtaking tragedies in the history of operas. He was hesitant about seeing this one together, while he didn't admit to me why he was reluctant, he did end up giving in. From the way his hand tightened around my own and his eyes watered at her voice, I could tell this performance brought out emotions in him. Emotions perhaps tied to the meaning of this opera he so stubbornly kept from me.

My head rested against his shoulder, and as if we had done this for 8 years, his arm came around me and enveloped me in his chest, a gesture that sent my heart flying through my chest, and for the crowd to completely forget the opera and watch us instead.

As the opera came to an end, the cast came to the edge of the stage and looked up at the royal box. I quickly turned away, knowing I shouldn't stand up, being that I am not royal. "It is customary," Gino whispered to me, "that the royal members stand and acknowledge."

"Then do it," I whispered back, sliding down in my seat, wanting to crawl out, but Gino's grip on my waist was preventing me from slinking away like the worm I am.

"Scaredy cat," his disapproving tone, coated in playfulness told me that there was no way I was going to sneak off.

"Gino, royal family," I groaned, poking his hands, trying to signal for him to let me go, but he was totally ignoring it. "I am not royalty."

He smirked, raising his beautiful eyebrow at me, "I believe you are, Lady Scaredy Cat."

"So not funny," I pouted.

"Come, fiore. They are waiting." Gino didn't give me much choice as he yanked me from the chair and managed to have me stand in front of him, his left arm around my waist while his right hand carefully and gracefully guided my wrist with his own to wave to the cast who had been waiting to bow. He bent down so that his chin could rest on my shoulder and his cheek pressed against my cheek. "You're a natural."

"Just because of that, you can't stay over," I grumbled, stepping on his foot, earning myself a slight grunt.

"Do not be mean to me, fiore," he whispered.

I continue to ignore him, but he wasn't letting up.

He kept his head on my shoulder, watching me, his breath tickling the nape of my neck. His lips came achingly close to my ear, his lips gently tickling the curve and my earlobe before whispering, "You are my monarchy."

It was moments like this.

Moments when words like those stopped everything.

Stopped time.

Stopped my heart.

Stopped all the fear from flooding me.

Stopped me from wanting to run away and never come to Italy.

"You are my monarchy."