Page 41 of Crown of Blood

Teresa's hands pause as she fastens a delicate gold necklace around my throat. "Some do. Some don't."

"And which am I?"

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. "You're neither. You're Mrs. Ravelli now. The name carries weight."

"It carries judgment."

"Of course it does." She resumes her work, adjusting the necklace so it sits perfectly against my collarbone. "Power always invites scrutiny. Especially when it's new."

I turn to face her fully. "I don't have power."

Teresa's laugh is soft and knowing. "You share a bed with Luca Ravelli. You wear his ring. You carry his name. What do you think that is, if not power?"

Before I can answer, the suite door opens. I know it's him without turning. The air changes when Luca enters a room—becomes charged, electric.

"Leave us," he commands, and Teresa slips out without a word.

I face him slowly, pulse quickening despite myself. Luca fills the doorway, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black suit. His hair is damp, curling slightly at his temples. He's freshly shaven, but exhaustion lines his eyes, giving him a dangerous, feral edge.

Those eyes lock onto mine, gray as smoke and just as suffocating.

"You're back," I say, aiming for indifference and missing by miles.

He steps closer, the scent of his cologne—dark, expensive—wrapping around me. "Did you miss me, little rabbit?"

I lift my chin. "Should I have?"

His mouth curves, amused by my defiance. Even after two weeks as his wife, I still refuse to yield completely. It's the only piece of myself I've managed to keep intact.

Luca circles me slowly, appraising. His fingers brush the bare skin of my shoulder, a touch so light it might be mistaken for tenderness if I didn't know better.

"The dress suits you."

I resist the urge to lean into his touch. "You chose it."

"I know what looks good on my wife." His voice drops lower, rougher. "And what looks better off her."

Heat coils low in my stomach, unwelcome but undeniable. This is what he does to me—turns my body traitor with nothing more than a look.

"We have brunch," I remind him, stepping back. "Your family is waiting."

He catches my wrist, tugging me against him. "They can wait longer."

I push against his chest. "Luca—"

"Tell me you didn't miss me." His grip tightens, not painful but impossible to break. "Tell me you slept soundly in my bed without me there."

The truth claws at my throat—that I did miss him. That I've spent three nights reaching for a body that wasn't there. That I've grown accustomed to falling asleep with his arm heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my neck.

But I won't give him the satisfaction.

"I slept better without you," I lie.

His eyes darken, tracking the pulse at my throat that gives me away. He backs me toward the bathroom, a predator herding prey. "We need to shower before brunch."

"I already bathed."

His smile is all teeth. "Not thoroughly enough."

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