Page 17 of Iron Roses

I follow.

We pass beneath the arch of the gates. On either side, men dressed in black—armed, watchful, composed—stand like statues. Their eyes track me, but they don’t speak.

Their presence makes my skin prickle. I feel like prey. Like I’ve just been delivered to a cage with gold trim and blood in the seams.

Inside the grounds, everything is manicured, controlled. Gravel paths cut through the grass. Trees line the lane in symmetrical rows. The estate is a place of wealth, yes—but also order. Precision. Power that does not explain itself.

My steps fall slightly behind Allegra’s. I keep my eyes forward, but my hands twitch.

We near the main building. The double doors are already open.

Two men step out to meet us.

The first one is broad—a wall of muscle dressed in charcoal-gray. He moves like a man trained to hurt and restrain. His eyes are sharp, scanning, and his hands never leave his belt. His jaw twitches once as he looks at me, then flicks his gaze to Allegra.

Beside him stands another man.

Taller.

Leaner.

He’s dressed casually—black pants, loose at the waist, a half-open shirt revealing a sinewed chest marked by oldshadows and deeper secrets. His hair is black, streaked with silver at the temples like smoke curling through ink. Gray eyes meet mine—not cold, no. Worse. Penetrating. Ancient. Like he’s not just seeing me—but remembering me.

And I—

My heartbeat stumbles, then slams into rhythm again. Painfully loud.

Something inside me coils and recoils in the space of a second. A tether pulled taut across the void. I don't know him. I’ve never met him. But some part of my soul—the part that dreams when I’m not sleeping—recognizes him.

There’s no other word for it.

Recognition.

Not of the face, but of the feeling he carries.

His eyes drift over me with a stillness that makes me want to flinch. He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t have to. That silence is alive. Heavy. Intimate. Like a secret between us neither of us understands yet.

He has a scar beneath his left eye, a slash that cuts his face into something cruel and beautiful at once. One hand—tattooed, pale—rests casually at his side, but his stance radiates control.

I try to look away.

I can’t.

And deep in my chest, beneath the ache and the fear, something stirs.

Chapter Four – Cassian

Lorenzo and I step through the doorway as they reach the building. I see her for the first time.

She’s thinner than I expected. Her frame wrapped in black fabric too large for her body, hanging from her like shadows. She moves cautiously, eyes scanning the unfamiliar estate like it might vanish if she blinks.

Tall, but not threatening. Graceful, with a kind of quiet tension beneath her posture—not the rigidity of pride, but of someone who’s learned to survive on instinct alone. Long chestnut hair falls in waves around her face, strands pulled by the wind, framing skin that still carries the smudges of grief.

And then her eyes meet mine.

Green. Unmistakably Fontanesi. Fiercely expressive, even as they mask the turmoil underneath. They search me, unsure whether to fear me or bow. And yet—they don’t flinch.

The girl from Giovanna’s stories stands in front of me.

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