Page 93 of Crown of Blood

I nod against his chest, unable to speak through the tightness in my throat.

"But this—" his fingers trace the line of my jaw, tilting my face up to his, "—is real too. What I feel for you. What you feel for me. Whether you want to admit it or not."

"I'm scared," I finally whisper, the admission costing me more than I thought possible.

"Good," he says, brutally honest as always. "You should be. This life isn't for the faint of heart."

"Your father—"

"Is a conversation for another time," he cuts me off, thumb brushing away tears from my cheek. "Tonight is about you. About us. About whether you're staying or going."

The choice hangs between us, as real as it was that first night in the hotel room.

In this moment, I believe him more than I did then.

I could leave. He'd let me walk away tonight, if that's what I choose.

At least for now.

But the truth crashes over me with devastating clarity: I don't want to go.

Not really. Despite the horror of what I witnessed, despite the blood and secrets and danger.

Because somewhere between being claimed in that hotel and being carved with his mark, I've done the unthinkable. I've fallen in love with Luca Ravelli. Monster, murderer, protector, lover—all of him, not just the parts that are easy to accept.

"I will stay with you," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "But Luca, I want more. If I am in this life, this world,yourworld, then let me be exactly that."

His arms tighten around me, and for just a moment, I feel him tremble.

"Then let's go home, wife," he says against my temple, the words a promise and a threat combined.

As he lifts me from the cottage floor, carrying me back toward the mansion that holds both horrors and unexpected joy, I understand finally what Teresa meant.

Sometimes we need to try to leave to realize where we truly belong.

Even if it's in the arms of a monster who's claimed us body and soul.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Bianca

Sincethatnightinthe gardener's cottage, everything seems to have come full circle.

Perhaps Luca is right.

I chose this life. This man, this world.

He's given me chances, and still, here I am, staring into the darkness of the Ravelli Empire with eyes wide open.

The wounds on Luca's back have begun to heal, pink lines where my nails tore into his flesh as he fucked me against that stone wall. A marking of my own, to match the one he carved above my heart.

We've settled into a strange new rhythm since then. Luca still disappears for hours, hunting through his family's bloody history in the name of claiming the throne he so desperately wants.

But he returns to me each night with less violence in his eyes.

Sometimes he even talks. Like Marcus would back when we first started dating. Like we're a normal couple, except instead of choosing out where we go for dinner or which piece of furniture we can afford to purchase next, I get fragmented theories about his mother's murder, suspicions about his father's involvement, and connections that seem to lead back to the most dangerous criminal group in Russia.

And to my mother.

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