Page 67 of Blood Debt
She snorts, barely. “I didn’t agree to that.”
I grab her hand before she can backpedal and pull her toward the first food stand glowing under a red tarp and rows of bare bulbs.
The man behind the counter is dunking dough balls in syrup, then rolling them in powdered sugar. The scent hits hard.
I buy two.
Hand her one.
She stares at it like it’s going to bite her.
“No thanks,” she says flatly.
I raise a brow. “Eat it.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Eat it, Elia.”
She gives me the side-eye, mutters something under her breath—probably a curse—and takes a bite.
Then she freezes. Just slightly.
Her lashes flutter once.
I know that look.
“You like it,” I say, grinning.
She scowls, licking sugar off her bottom lip. “It’s fine.”
“Uh huh.”
She takes another bite.
And then, almost too quiet to hear, she says, “Bianca would love this.”
I stop walking. Turn toward her.
“Who’s Bianca?”
Her body stiffens like a rope yanked taut.
She recovers fast. “A friend.”
My gaze sharpens.
A friend. Right.
She won’t look at me. Bianca? Was that a friend? I make a mental note to have Matteo look into it. So I lean closer, drop my voice an inch.
“You hiding a lover, Elia? Should I be jealous?”
She scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
I laugh.
Not because it’s funny—but because the tension in her is finally, finally, cracking.
