Page 92 of Blood Debt
I raise a brow. “About?”
His mouth twists like the answer tastes bitter. “That you were outside, waiting for the maid yesterday.”
I shrug, reaching for the steaming pot and pouring my own cup. “And?”
“And”—he sighs, leaning back— “I’m asking what the hell you want me to do next.”
I take a sip, thinking. “Have the signals blocked in the mansion. Every device. I don’t want her talking to her people until she and I…sort things out.”
Matteo’s eyes narrow. “And if she decides she doesn’t want to marry you after all this?”
“She’s already said yes,” I remind him, meeting his stare over the rim of my mug.
Matteo shakes his head slowly. “Only because she wants to betray you.”
“She’s not betraying me,” I say, though my tone is more stubborn than convincing. “She’s confused. But when she understands—when she knows I’m the father of her child, and that I love her”—I set the mug down, the ceramic hitting the table with a muted thud— “she’ll change her mind. I’ll work to make her love me.”
Matteo doesn’t flinch, but his voice hardens. “My job is to protect the Black Book. If she touches it, I’ll kill her. On the spot.”
I don’t answer. My jaw works as I look past him, out the window to the gardens where the morning fog is just lifting. Finally, I push away from the table. “Clear my schedule for the next few days.”
Matteo exhales through his nose, muttering something that sounds like delusional bastard, but he stands. “Fine.”
****
The door clicks softly behind me as I step back into my room. Early light filters through the curtains, casting gold over the bed. She’s still there—Serafina—curled on her side, the sheet tangled around her waist, bare skin glowing warm in the morning haze.
For a moment, I just stand there. Watching. Her lashes rest against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, her breathing slow and steady. My chest tightens.
I lean down, brushing my lips gently over her temple. The contact stirs her eyes, which blink open, hazy with sleep. She stretches lazily, the movement pulling the sheet higher up her chest.
“Morning,” I murmur, letting my gaze linger on her face. “Get ready. We’ve got a date today.”
She blinks again, still half-lost in sleep, then nods obediently. That small, wordless gesture sends a strange, warm satisfaction through me. I picture it—her hand in mine, our daughter laughing between us, a house far from this world where she doesn’t have to pretend. Where I make it up to her for all of it.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, bare toes brushing the carpet. The sheet slips, and she grabs it quickly, clutching it to her chest. I smile faintly at the sight.
“I’ll look away,” I say, turning my back to her. She hesitates, then rises, the quiet patter of her steps crossing to the bathroom.
Just before the door clicks shut, I catch the soft sound of her running—almost skipping—inside. My lips curve without me meaning to. Cute.
Even if she doesn’t see it yet…she’s mine. And I’ll make sure she knows it.
****
She’s quiet beside me as we follow the narrow path between the trees. Her sundress is the soft color of pale lemons, light enough that the breeze toys with the hem, and her hair is loose for once in chestnut ribbons. She doesn’t let go of my hand.
The path opens into a clearing. The blanket is already laid out, corners weighted with baskets and platters—prosciutto draped over thin paper, wedges of pecorino, fresh bread, figs split open, and a bottle of Chianti breathing in the center.
She stops. “You…did this?”
I watch the surprise bloom on her face. “Do you like it?”
A faint grin tugs her lips. “It’s beautiful.”
We sit. She tucks her dress modestly under her legs. I pour the wine, my eyes drifting to the way she studies the spread as if she’s afraid to disturb it. She takes a sip and sets the glass down with care.
“Tell me about yourself,” I say.
