The sunlight in Italy doesn't just rise; it intrudes. It spilled across the silk sheets of Lucien's oversized bed like liquid gold, mocking the darkness I'd spent my entire life cultivating.
But it wasn't the light that made my blood run cold. It was the memory.
I cried.
The realization hit me like a physical blow to the stomach. I, the woman who had strangled titans of industry without blinking, had come undone in the arms of the man I was sent to destroy. I could still feel the phantom pressure of his chest against mine, the way his heartbeat had slowed to match my own ragged breathing.
I sat up abruptly, my skin crawling with a sudden, violent need to be anywhere but here. I hated the vulnerability. It felt like a stain I couldn't scrub off.
"Waking up so soon, mon ange? I thought we were past the stage of you bolting like a frightened animal."
The voice was low, smooth, and dangerously close.
Lucien was sitting in a velvet armchair near the window, a sketchpad balanced on his knee. He was wearing a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing the dark, serpentine ink that seemed to pulse against his skin. He wasn't cold this morning. He was... hunting. His hazel eyes tracked my every movement with a terrifying level of focus.
"I don't bolt," I snapped, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "And I'm not your angel."
He stood up, crossing the room with a predator's grace. He didn't stop until he was standing directly over me. I refused to look up, but then I felt it—his fingers, surprisingly warm, brushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The touch was possessive.
"You are whatever I decide you are," he murmured. He tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. There was something different in his eyes—a flicker of that 'obsessive' light from my nightmares. "Especially now that the rumors have taken root."
I pulled away, my hand instinctively dropping to where my thigh holster should have been. Empty. "What rumors, Lucien?"
He walked toward the balcony, looking out over the sprawling estate as if he already wore the crown. "My brothers are vultures. My father is fading. They needed a reason to believe I've secured the bloodline. They needed to know why I've kept a common thief in my bed instead of a Donna with a pedigree."
He turned back to me, a cruel, beautiful smile playing on his lips.
"The family thinks you're pregnant, Charlène."
The air left my lungs. "You... you told them what?"
"I didn't have to say a word. I simply let them see how 'protective' I've become. It secures my position as the heir. No one challenges the man carrying the next De Rossi."
"I will kill you," I hissed, lunging out of the bed. My fingers curled into claws, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I will tear that lie out of your throat and leave you to rot in your own vault. I am not a pawn for your succession, and I am certainly not carrying your—"
I didn't even see him move. One moment I was charging; the next, his hand was clamped firmly around my waist, pinning me against the cold marble pillar of the bedframe. He didn't use brute force—he used presence. The heat radiating off him was unnatural, almost suffocating.
"You can try to kill me again, Charlène," he whispered into my ear, his breath ghosting over my skin. "But we both know you won't. Not because you can't... but because you've realized that without me, you're just a little girl waiting to be exorcised by the man who broke you."
He stepped back, his dominance absolute. He was right. That was the most sickening part. I was trapped between two monsters, and I was starting to prefer the one who sketched my eyes while I slept.
A knock echoed against the door.
Lucien didn't react immediately.
"Enter."
The doors to the suite burst open before I could find a retort.
One of his men stepped in—tall, composed… but there was something off. Something tight in his posture.
"Signore," he rasped. "This was left at the north gate. No prints. No signature. Just... this."
Lucien took the box, his expression shifting into something lethal. He opened it.
Inside, resting on a bed of white silk, was a silver charm bracelet. A small, dented violin charm hung from the center.
My heart stopped. Leo.
Lucien didn't say a word. He turned the box toward me. Tucked under the bracelet was a small, hand-written note on a piece of cardstock.
"Return what is mine, or I start sending him back to you piece by piece. 24 hours, Pet."
I wanted to scream. Viktor was here. He was in Italy?
Lucien closed the box with a definitive snap. The air around him suddenly felt charged, the shadows in the corners of the room lengthening as if responding to his rage. He didn't look at the guard. He looked at me, his hazel eyes darkening until they were almost black.
"It seems your past has come to my door, Charlène," he said, his voice dropping to a demonic register that vibrated in my very bones. "And I don't like people touching what belongs to me."