Page 18 of Crown of Blood

Our consigliere nods, already pulling out his phone.

"But understand this, Luca." My father leans forward, tubes stretching with the movement. "This is your gamble. Your choice. And with that, these areyourconsequences."

I meet his stare, unflinching. "As all things should be, father."

The threat beneath his words is clear—if this fails, if my new bride proves unstable or disloyal, the blame falls solely on my shoulders.

But they don't understand. Not yet. They haven't seen her eyes, haven't felt the steel in her spine.

They don't know what I already do: Bianca will either make me king... or help me burn this empire to ashes trying. One way or another, she’ll bring this family to its knees.

My wing is silent by the time I return. The family meeting went exactly as planned—they think they've cornered me, but I've already won the game.

Security cameras blink red above the door as I move inside, motion sensors armed, every entrance guarded.

The rest of the Ravelli mansion wears the mask of civility—fine art on the walls, ancient silver treasures in the cabinets.

But make no mistake… this place is a fortress. Not a home.

A prison where loyalty is bought in blood, and enemies bleed into the floorboards like wine.

My private floor stretches before me, a showcase of marble and dark shadows. No one enters my wing without my permission. This isn’t just my sanctuary.

It’s where I devour what’s mine.

I remove my coat and lay it across the back of my sofa where the last embers of the fire slowly die. The master suite doors part under my touch, and I move inside as moonlight spills across the floor.

The sight of her stops me dead.

Bianca lies stretched across my bed like a fallen angel, dark hair spilling over my pillows. Teresa dressed her in one of the silk nightgowns I ordered—ivory against black sheets, the fabric clinging to every curve. One strap has slipped off her shoulder, exposing the delicate line of her collarbone.

My little rabbit, finally in my lair.

The moonlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows bathes her skin in silver, making her look like something otherworldly as she breathes softly in her sleep.

Something that shouldn't exist in my world of shadows, violence and blood.

I approach silently, drawn to her warmth.

The nightgown—worth more than anything she would have ever owned—has ridden up, revealing the curve of her ass and the length of her deliciously thick thighs.

She’s cleaner now. Hair washed, loose around her face like a halo dipped in ink. No longer wet and tangled from the rain. Her skin looks softer, no longer streaked with tears and mascara but bathed in rosewater and soap.

My gaze catches on the empty water glass beside her. Good girl.

Teresa followed my instructions about the sleeping aid. She did well. I’ll remember to reward her tomorrow.

In sleep, the defiance melts from Bianca's face. Those sharp eyes that challenged me are closed, those lips that spat venom are parted softly.

But even unconscious, she's not fully tamed. One hand clutches the sheet, knuckles white. Fighting. Always fighting.

"La mia piccola guerriera," I murmur, pride coiling low in my gut.

My little warrior.

I move closer, breath slowing as I loosen my tie, drinking in the sight of her. So clean. Pure. Unmarked.

For now.

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