Page 34 of Crown of Blood

His bride. His possession. His.

I close my eyes, remembering the cathedral. Not the vows or the priest, but thepowerthat had filled that sacred space. Men with scars on their knuckles and death in their eyes. Women dripping in diamonds who assessed me like I was livestock at auction. The silent nods exchanged. The measured distance kept from Luca's father.

These are my people now. Not people at all—predators. And I'm swimming among them without knowing how deep the bloodied water goes.

The mattress shifts. I tense, expecting more demands, more claiming or fierce hands flipping me on all fours again now he's had a chance to catch his breath.

Instead, Luca moves with a quiet, primal grace that reminds me of something ancient and dangerous. He rises naked from the bed, muscles shifting beneath marked skin as he pads toward a door I hadn't noticed before.

He's leaving. He's done with me.

I exhale, relief and something like disappointment tangling in my chest.

But then seconds later, he returns, holding a crystal glass of water in one hand and a cloth in the other. The cloth is warm and smells of lavender as he presses it between my thighs, cleaning away the evidence of what we've done. His touch is... gentle. Clinical, almost.

He collects a second towel from his side and wipes my brow next, then my neck where his mouth has left its mark.

"Drink," he commands, holding the glass to my lips.

I obey, water spilling slightly down my chin. He catches the droplet with his thumb.

"Is this drugged too?" My voice comes out hoarse from screaming his name earlier.

Luca's eyes flash in the dim light, a predator's gleam. His thumb traces my bottom lip where water has spilled.

"You don't need it tonight." His gaze drops to where the sheet barely covers my breasts. "The pleasure in your eyes ensures a peaceful sleep."

Heat floods my cheeks at his words. At the truth in them. My body still tingles from his touch, aftershocks of pleasure making me shift against the silk sheets.

"I wasn't—" I start to protest, but his finger presses against my lips.

"Lie to yourself if you must." His voice drops lower, dangerous. "But never lie to me."

When I'm finished, he takes the glass away and pulls the sheet up around my shoulders, tucking it around me like I'm something precious. Something that needs protection.

His eyes never soften. His possessiveness doesn't falter for a moment. But this—this feels like care.

And I don't know what to do with the tenderness of it. It almost hurts more than the sex.

I lie perfectly still as Luca settles back beside me, his arm heavy across my waist. His palm splays flat against my stomach, fingers spread wide like he's measuring the space between my ribs.

“Sleep now,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from my temple. “Tomorrow, you wake as mine.”

But sleep won't come. My mind races, trying to make sense of what just happened between us. What's happening tome.

Is this what they call Stockholm syndrome? Falling for your captor because he's the only constant in your new reality? Or is it trauma bonding—clinging to the man who both threatens and protects me?

I should hate him. I should be plotting my escape. Instead, I'm replaying the way his hands gentled on my skin. The way his eyes darkened when I moaned his name.

I'm broken. I must be. Cracked open and remade into something I don't recognize.

But then I remember that moment—just before he entered me—when our eyes locked. Something flashed there. Something raw and wounded. Not the calculated predator, but a man with ghosts behind his eyes. Ghosts that seemed to quiet when his body joined with mine.

Nothing about Luca Ravelli follows any logic I've ever known.

He threatens to break me, then treats my body like it's precious. He forces me to marry him, then asks permission to take me. He calls me his possession, then tends to me after with hands that could kill but choose to soothe instead.

His breathing deepens beside me, and I risk turning my head to look at him.

---