Page 22 of Crown of Blood

Teresa's face hardens and she shakes her head at me.

"That boy wasn't worthy of you." She brushes a strand of wet hair from my face. "Luca Ravelli is many things—dangerous things—but he keeps his promises. He is a man of his word as much as he is a man of power."

She smiles faintly. “Weddings change things, dear. Even in a family like this. They bring back old ghosts. Stirs the blood. Creates tension where there isn't any.”

I swallow hard.

“I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“No,” she agrees. “But neither did he.”

That lands like a rock in my stomach.

Teresa leads me through a hidden door I hadn't noticed before, and my breath catches. The dressing suite stretches wider than my old apartment's living room, wrapped in black velvet walls that make the space feel infinite. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceiling, casting rainbow prisms across racks of designer gowns arranged by color. Like a Roman artist's palette gone dark.

Glass cases line the walls, displaying jewelry that looks more like beautiful weapons than accessories. Diamonds sharp enough to cut. Pearls heavy as bullets. Ruby chokers that could double as collars.

"This is..." I trail off, running my fingers along a silk sleeve of a gorgeous gown that now, apparently, is mine.

"Ravelli tradition." Teresa moves with purpose toward the darkest corner of the room. "Everything a woman could need is in here. If it isn't, find me and I will get whatever your heart, or your husband, desires."

She winks at me, then pulls out a gown that makes my heart stop.

"Teresa," I breathe, stepping closer to run my hands through it. "It's…beautiful."

Black silk bleeds into molten gold at the hem, like someone dipped midnight in sunlight. The bodice is a masterwork of intricate beading, creating a pattern that looks almost like chains.

"I can't wear that though." My voice sounds small even to my own ears.

Teresa lifts a brow, the gown draped over her arm like a trophy. "And why not?"

She holds it up, the silk catching the light, deep Ravelli black threaded with dark gold embroidery.

"Because I'm not—" I swallow hard. "I'm not his bride. I'm just his... his object. His possession. Something he claimed because he could."

But even as I say it, the words taste wrong. Too brittle. Too defensive.

Because what kind of possession gets bathed in oils, wrapped in silk, and served breakfast with her favorite flower in a vase?

I glance at the gown again, pulse ticking in my throat. It's not white. It's not traditional. It's notinnocent. But for a second—just one wild, shameful second—I wonder what Luca will think when he sees me in it.

And that realization guts me.

God. Am I really starting tocarewhat he thinks?

Teresa’s eyes catch mine in the mirror—sharp, lined with age, but filled with the kind of knowing that only comes from surviving men like Luca Ravelli.

"Oh,tesoro," she says, voice soft and certain. "Stop worrying yourself. You are his deepest desire made flesh. You just haven’t seen it yet."

She steps behind me, starts unlacing the back of the gown.

"And a Ravelli bride never wears white," she adds, her smile curling into something dark. "White is for innocence. For purity."

Her gaze meets mine again and I feel the towel wrapped around me drop to the floor.

"And you, my dear…" She smiles into the mirror, looking over me as orders my arms up to allow her to drape the gown over my head. "You're about to become something far more dangerous than pure."

I stand frozen as Teresa steps back, her gentle hands smoothing the fabric over my hips. The black silk clings to my body, the gold embellishments catching the light with every breath I take.

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