All Chapters of Falling for My Biker Stepbrother: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Candice’s P.O.V.The hospital room felt smaller in the daylight, like the walls had decided to lean in and listen to every quiet word we exchanged. Sunlight sliced through the half-open blinds in warm golden bars across Mantovani’s chest, highlighting the fresh white bandages that peeked from the neck of his gown and the faint rise and fall of his breathing. I sat on the edge of the bed now, one leg tucked under me, the other dangling, my fingers still laced with his because letting go felt impossible after the night we’d just survived. His hand was warmer than it had been at 3 a.m.—not quite steady, but alive—and every time his thumb brushed mine, even weakly, something tight in my chest loosened another notch.He was watching me.Those green eyes—still hazy from the morphine drip but clearer than they’d been since the mountain—tracked every small movement I made: the way I brushed hair from his forehead, the way I adjusted the thin blanket over his legs, the way I kept swallowing ba

Candice’s P.O.V.The jet engines hummed a low, steady lullaby beneath us, the kind that vibrated through the leather seats and into my bones like a promise that we were finally moving forward instead of running. I sat sideways in the wide cream-colored chair, legs tucked under me, my head resting against Mantovani’s good shoulder while his arm curved loosely around my back. The cabin lights were dimmed to a soft gold, casting gentle shadows across his face, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he looked almost peaceful. His breathing was even, the oxygen cannula gone, the monitors replaced by a single portable pulse oximeter clipped to his finger that blinked a quiet green 98%. Alive. Steady. Mine.I traced the edge of the fresh bandage peeking from the collar of his loose black shirt, feeling the faint warmth of his skin beneath the gauze. Every beat of his heart under my fingertips still felt like a miracle I hadn’t earned but refused t

Candice’s P.O.V.The Portuguese sun felt different here—warmer, slower, like it had all the time in the world and wanted us to borrow some of it. I stood barefoot on the wide stone terrace the next morning, coffee mug warm between my palms, watching the Atlantic sparkle below the cliff like it was celebrating with us. The villa’s white walls glowed soft gold, bougainvillea spilling over the railing in vivid purple, and the air carried the clean scent of salt mixed with the faint sweetness of the lemon grove behind the house. No sirens. No distant gunfire. Just the steady rhythm of waves and the occasional cry of a seabird.It still felt like a dream I was afraid to wake up from.Mantovani’s arms slid around my waist from behind, careful but sure, his chest pressing gently against my back. He moved slower than usual, the stitches and bruises making every step a negotiation, but he was here—standing on his own two feet, breathing against my hair, alive.“Yo

Candice’s P.O.V.I woke to the sound of the sea and the steady beat of Mantovani’s heart beneath my cheek. Sunlight poured through the open balcony doors in warm, lazy streams, painting the white sheets gold and turning the room into something soft and dreamlike. For one perfect, suspended moment I simply lay there, breathing him in—the faint scent of salt on his skin, the clean cotton of the pillow, the subtle trace of the cologne he’d worn yesterday when he promised me forever in front of our family.His arm was draped heavy across my waist, warm and possessive even in sleep. The bandages on his chest were still stark white against his tanned skin, but his breathing was deep and even, no hitch, no struggle. Alive. Whole. Mine.I tilted my head just enough to watch him. The morning light softened every sharp edge the war had carved into his face—the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the small scar through his eyebrow, the way

Candice’s P.O.V.The first full month in Portugal passed like a slow exhale after years of holding our breath.We didn’t rush anything. Mantovani’s body still needed time—stitches dissolved, bruises faded to pale yellow ghosts, and some mornings he woke stiff and aching, pressing his palm to the scar on his chest like he could still feel the bullet there. I learned the shape of every new mark on him: the thin silver line where the surgeon had gone in, the faint pink circle where the chest tube had been, the way his left shoulder still caught when he reached too high. I kissed each one like I could erase it, even though we both knew scars don’t disappear—they just become part of the map we carry.Mornings became our ritual. I’d wake first, slip out of bed, and make coffee in the little kitchen that still smelled faintly of lemon polish and new beginnings. By the time the espresso machine hissed its last breath, Mantovani