Page 77 of Of Oaths and Secrets

She looks up at me, unaware of the storm she’s ignited, and I can’t help but smirk. I thought I was the one in control, the one holding the cards. But now? Now, I realize she owns every part of me.

And the worst part? I’m okay with that.

Chapter Nineteen

Nora

I’m happy—truly and blissfully happy. It’s a kind of happiness I never expected, especially not in a marriage within the famiglia and certainly not with Il Mietitore. But here I am, in what is—against all odds—a happy marriage.

When Rafaele said he’d never get enough of me, I thought it was just words in the heat of the moment, something people say. But no, he meant it. And the truth is, I can’t get enough of him either.

When he’s home, he can’t keep his hands off me—not just for sex, though there’s plenty of that. Sometimes, it’s sweet and gentle, and other times, it’s hard and fast, a reflection of the two sides of the man I married. The duality of him—the dangerous, controlled reaper and the tender, fiercely protective husband—captivates me in ways I never imagined.

But it’s more than that. It’s in the quiet moments, too, like when we retreat to our cocoon in the library after a long day. He holds me close, his arms wrapped around me as we talk about our day. I shamelessly revel in the feel of his warmth, the comforting scent of him that lingers long after he’s gone.

He makes me feel safe, cherished—even in a world that’s anything but. And every day, I realize more and more that this isn’t just a marriage of convenience or duty.

I’m also getting used to the version of Rafaele he shows the world during our few public outings. I’m lucky that, like me, he shies away from the pretenses and fake friendships of the high-society circles we occasionally find ourselves in. During those times, he remains cold and distant, but the subtle brush of his fingers against mine means everything. It’s his way of reminding me that even in the harshest light, we’re connected, and that connection grounds me in ways I never knew I needed.

I haven’t officially moved into Rafaele’s room—it’s not something that’s common in our world. Spouses usually keep separate rooms, a tradition of sorts. But we’ve made an unspoken agreement. Every night, we share a bed, whether he comes to my room or I go to his. It’s a tacit rule, one that I’ve come to rely on. I don’t think I’d have a restful night’s sleep without him by my side anymore.

We’re both busy, our days and weeks blurring together. Rafaele’s role as the sottocapo is becoming more and more demanding as his father continues his relentless pursuit of loyalty, always searching for enemies where there might not be any. And me? I’m busy with my courses, adjusting to life as his wife, and my growing friendship with Lucia.

Life has settled into a rhythm, one that I’ve come to cherish, though I can’t shake the feeling that it’s the calm before the storm.

Even my chronic illness has granted me a rare respite, and I’ve almost forgotten that I’m burdened with it… almost. That is, until an early February morning when I wake up to a renewed ache in my knees, ribs, and back. At first, I try to brush it off, blaming it on last night’s rough lovemaking, the new position we experimented with, but deep down, I know the truth. The dullache in my bones feels too familiar, too sharp to be ignored. My body is giving me a harsh reminder—a reality check I had hoped to avoid for just a little longer.

As I lie there, feeling the pain creeping back in, I realize that the peace I’ve been enjoying might be slipping through my fingers. The storm I’ve been dreading feels like it’s coming—inside and out. And I’m not sure how long I can keep it at bay this time.

I have plans today—a trip to the city to meet with my professor, followed by a girls’ day out with Lucia. I force myself to follow through despite the nausea, the aching joints, and the uncomfortable sweats that cling to me. I can’t let it stop me. Not today.

At breakfast, as we sit in a cozy little café, Lucia gives me a curious look as I grimace at my plate of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, pushing it around with my fork.

"Are you okay?" she asks, concern lacing her voice. "You look like you’re about to be sick."

I force a smile, rubbing my stomach lightly. "Yeah, sorry. My stomach’s just a little off. I must’ve eaten something that didn’t agree with me."

"Or maybe you’re pregnant," she says with a teasing grin, her tone light, but her words hit me like a truck.

I freeze, my smile slipping as the color drains from my face. Pregnant? I hadn’t even considered the possibility.

Lucia's teasing expression falters when she sees my reaction. "Hey, I was joking. Is it… possible?"

I nod slowly, my mind racing. “I mean, yes. We’ve been… quite active.” My voice is a little shaky as I speak, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how many times Rafaele and I have been together over the past few weeks.

She cringes, scrunching her nose. “Gross, but also… wow. Do you think you could be?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, my thoughts swirling. My periods have always been irregular, and with everything that’s been going on, I haven’t been paying attention. But now that I think about it… it’s been at least seven weeks.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady the sudden rush of emotions—part panic, part excitement. "I guess… I’ll have to find out."

The thought consumes me—baby, or rather, potential baby. What if I’m pregnant? Does Rafaele want a child? Of course, he’ll need an heir. But does he want the baby just for that reason? And what about my health? The risks? A flood of questions crashes through me, none of them easy to answer.

Lucia watches me closely, sensing my unease. She leans in, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Do you think the baby Reaper will be the antichrist?”

I can't help but chuckle, the tension easing just a bit. She's trying to lighten the mood, and somehow, it works.

We finish our lunch, though I can barely focus on the food. Every bite feels mechanical, my mind elsewhere—on the test, on what could be. Lucia, sensing my nerves, keeps up a steady stream of light conversation.

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