Page 72 of Crown of Blood

My voice, when it comes, is barely recognizable. "Are you sure?"

She doesn't answer with words. Instead, she reaches for my hand, guiding it to the top of her dress. My fingers curl around the delicate fabric.

"Rip it," she whispers.

I tear the fabric with one quick motion, baring her to the waist. She wears nothing underneath, her breasts sit perfectly in the moonlight, tight pink nipples hardening in the cool night air.

"Beautiful," I murmur, reaching for the blade without breaking eye contact. "And now you want this?" I trace the flat of the knife over her collarbone, watching her shiver. "You want me to mark what's mine?"

"Yes," she breathes, her pupils blown wide with a desire that matches my own. "Please, Luca."

I stand, moving around the table until I'm behind her chair. One hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head back to expose the elegant line of her throat. The other holds the blade, hovering above her skin.

"If I do this," I tell her, voice rough with need, "there's no going back. You're giving me something no contract, no wedding, no fucking collar could ever claim."

Her eyes find mine, upside-down from this angle but burning with certainty. "I know."

I lean down, my lips brushing her ear. "Then beg me for it. You know my rules. Beg for my blade."

Her breath comes faster, the candlelight casting golden patterns across her bare skin.

"Please," she whispers, barely audible above the night breeze. "Mark me, Luca. Make me as yours."

The knife hovers above her breast, a breath away from breaking skin. I watch her face, searching for any sign of hesitation.

I find only raw hunger that mirrors my own.

"Where?" I demand, need sharpening my voice to a blade's edge.

Her hand rises to guide mine. She presses my wrist, directing the knife to the swell of her left breast, just above her heart.

"Here," she whispers. "Where it matters most."

I press the tip of the blade against her skin, just enough to create a dimple without breaking through. Her breathing stops, suspended in the moment between anticipation and pain.

"Look at me," I command. "Don't look away."

Her eyes lock with mine, pupils swallowing amber iris. I increase the pressure, watching as the first drop of blood wells around the silver tip.

She gasps, body tensing, but doesn't pull away.

Slowly, with the expert precision of a mafia mobster who was practically born with a blade in his hand, I trace the first line of the Ravelli crest—a single curve, no deeper than a papercut, but enough to draw a thin crimson thread across her perfect skin. Her blood is startlingly bright against pale flesh, like wine spilled on white silk.

A soft moan escapes her lips, caught somewhere between pleasure and pain. My own breath comes shorter, cock straining against Italian wool as I make a second cut, perpendicular to the first. My vision narrows, the world beyond her body falling away until there is nothing but her blood, her breath, and her complete surrender and mercy at my hands.

When I complete the simple pattern—the first half of my family's crest—I pull back, admiring my work. Five small cuts, barely more than scratches, arranged in a pattern that marks her as mine more permanently than any ring or vow.

I set the knife down, then drop to my knees before her chair. Without speaking, I lean forward and press my tongue to her skin, tasting the coppery warmth of her blood mixed with salt and rose-scented soap.

She moans into the night, fingers tangling in my hair as I lick the cuts clean, sealing them with my mouth. The taste of her blood is intoxicating. I feel her trembling beneath my tongue, hear the soft, broken sounds she makes as pleasure overtakes pain.

"Luca," she gasps, pulling me closer. "Please—I need—"

I rise quickly, lifting her from the chair as I stand. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, arms locking behind my neck. I carry her to the stone balustrade that edges the terrace, setting her down on the cold marble.

The night spreads out behind her, the gardens below black and silver in the moonlight. Anyone could see us… guards patrolling the perimeter, servants passing through the corridors.

I don't fucking care.

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