Page 39 of Crown of Blood

I cross the room and pull a leather chair beside the bed. The sound should wake her—I've seen how light she sleeps, how quick her instincts are. But she doesn't stir. She already trusts me enough to stay under.

Dangerous, that trust. For both of us.

I study her face, so different from the defiant creature who challenged me in that hotel room. Who stood before me in that cathedral. Who yielded to me in this very bed.

Each version of her slots into place like she was made for this life. It seems I have bided my time perfectly, waited and waited for the right innocent little rabbit to finally fall into my trap.

The photos from the warehouse attack sit heavy in my pocket. Someone timed this—waited until my wedding night, until I was distracted. They're testing me, seeing if she makes me weak.

But they don't understand.

She doesn't make me weak. She makes mefocused.

The truth hits like a bullet: I will burn this city to ash to keep her safe. I will paint these walls with blood if anyone tries to use her against me.

I rise from the chair, careful not to wake her.

At the window, I pull out a cigarette and light it with a flick of my lighter. In the distance, the city sprawls before me, waking up slowly as it's bathed in golden morning light that's so rare in these parts.

London will rise as always, unaware of the blood that will soon stain its streets.

The cigarette burns between my fingers as I watch her reflection in the window.

So peaceful. So fucking innocent.

But Matteo's mention of my father's interest in her still rings in my ears. Vito Ravelli doesn't waste his dying breath on meaningless inquiries. If he mentioned her, it wasn’t by accident.

Maybe it's a bluff. Maybe it's leverage. Or maybe... there's something I've overlooked.

The thought makes my jaw clench. I will need more information about the woman I've brought here. I will need her investigated. Every detail of her life laid bare before I plant my seed and put my trust in someone I know nothing about.

I make the vow silently, letting it sink into my bones: Until I'm given reason not to, if they touch her—if they even dare to look at her wrong—I will paint these streets red until they forget her name exists outside of mine. Until they understand that hurting her means war.

And Luca Ravelli has never lost a war.

I take one last drag, crushing the cigarette into the crystal ashtray.

She's mine to protect. Mine to keep.

Mine to destroy, if necessary.

But first, I need to know what my father knows.

Chapter Ten

Bianca

Twoweeks.

Fourteen days.

Three hundred and thirty-six hours since I became Mrs. Ravelli.

I wake alone in sheets that still smell like him, though Luca hasn't slept beside me in three days. The bed is vast—a black sea I'm drowning in, silk sliding against my skin as I reach across the emptiness.

Sunlight filters through heavy curtains, casting the room in muted gold. Everything about the Ravelli mansion is like this: opulent but cold. Beautiful but untouchable. A gilded cage that gleams brightest when the bars catch the light.

I trace the engraving on my wedding ring—the Ravelli crest, a snarling wolf encircled by thorned roses. The gold is heavy, the design intricate. Like everything in this life, it's both exquisite and suffocating.

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