Page 32 of Savage Devotion

"Three days," she finally says. "What do I need to prepare?"

"Nothing," I reply, stepping away from her. "Everything will be provided. Including suitable attire for a queen."

She leaves, and soon my penthouse is in full swing. The preparation for these types of events is meticulous.

Marco arranges triple security to escort us through London en-route for the private jet. Vincent secures our accommodations—the presidential suite atLe Royal Monceauwith adjoining rooms for security. Sophia compiles dossiers on every attendee, highlighting potential allies and threats.

And I supervise it all while watching Francesca process the news of her temporary freedom.

She doesn't skip, doesn't cheer, doesn't show childish excitement.

But I see it in the way her posture straightens, how her eyes linger longer on the security monitors showing the world outside, how she asks Elise careful questions about Paris weather and appropriate attire that will align with my expectations.

The evening before our departure, I call her to my private study. It's a room she hasn't yet been permitted to enter.

She arrives wearing another of the dresses I've provided, this one a deep emerald that turns her skin to cream. Her hair is held up in a tight bun tonight. She's added subtle makeup, enhancing her natural beauty rather than masking it.

"You wanted to see me?" she asks, lingering in the doorway as if uncertain of her welcome.

I gesture her inside, closing the door behind her.

The room is masculine, dominated by a massive desk carved from a single piece of mahogany. Bookshelves line one wall, a collection of first editions and rare texts I've accumulated over years. The opposite wall displays weapons. Some ancient, some more modern. It's a curator's collection of means to kill.

She notices the weapons immediately, her eyes widening slightly.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" I say, following her gaze to a 16th-century stiletto dagger. "Each one has a history. A purpose. A kill to it's name."

"Is this why you summoned me?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral. "To show me your trophies? To threaten me without needing to say a word?"

"No." I cross to the bar cart, pouring two measures of scotch. "I want to ensure you understand perfectly the rules for Paris. This event is… let's just say,importantfor my current endeavors."

She accepts the glass I offer, her fingers brushing mine in a contact that shouldn't feel as significant as it does.

"Fine. I'm listening."

"First," I begin, taking a seat and motioning for her to do the same. "You will never be out of my sight or Marco's. Not for a moment."

She nods, sipping the expensive scotch without flinching at its harsh bite.

"Second, you will not speak to anyone unless I initiate the conversation. This includes staff, security, and especially other guests. I don't care about your past interactions with these people, you aren't a Castellano anymore. You are a Ravelli, and you will act like one."

A flicker of annoyance crosses her face, but she nods again. "Understood."

"Third, and most importantly, if anyone asks about your status, you are my fiancé. My willing, devoted fiancé who cannot wait to becomeMrs. Ravelli."

This earns me a raised eyebrow. "Fiancé? Not prisoner? Not merchandise?"

"Those terms are for private use only," I reply, enjoying the flush that spreads across her cheeks. "In public, you are being courted by the most dangerous man in the room. Remember that."

"And what exactly is expected of this... devoted fiancé?" she asks, a dangerous edge entering her voice. "Am I to simper and cling to your arm? Gaze adoringly at your every word and flutter my lashes at you?"

I laugh, genuinely amused by the image. "Now you're being ridiculous. You are a Castellano. Everyone will be aware of that fact. They will expect dignity, poise, and intelligence from you, because of where you came from." I lean forward, making sure she understands my next words perfectly. "So what I expect isyour loyalty. Your support. Your partnership in navigating these shark-infested waters."

Surprise flickers across her face at my use of "partnership" rather than "obedience."

"And in return?" she asks quietly.

"In return, you get Paris," I answer simply. "You get three days outside these walls. You get to breathe air that isn't filtered through security systems. You get to see the city as it's meant to be seen."

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