Page 1 of Blood Debt
Prologue – Serafina
December 2018- Rome, Italy
My head feels slow, like I’ve surfaced from underwater too fast. Blinking against the dark, I push up onto my elbows and glance around.
A single candle flickers from a stone shelf behind the bed, its flame uneven and restless. Shadows stretch across the walls in gold-tinted streaks, soft and strange. The linens beneath me are tangled, warm. I realize quickly—too quickly—that I’m naked under the blanket.
My breath catches in my throat.
No panic. Just confusion laced with faint amusement.
I glance down. My body’s fine. No bruises. No pain. Nothing unfamiliar, except the space.
And then I hear it. A breath behind me.
I turn my head.
He’s lying there, bare-chested, one arm slung carelessly over the pillow. His features are calm in sleep—angular, composed, like a statue still cooling from the forge. The same man from last night. The man from the bar.
Rome.
My lips twitch despite myself. He wasn’t just a handsome distraction. He was…intense. The kind of mistake you only make once and think about for years.
I sit up slowly, not wanting to wake him. My legs slide out from under the blanket, brushing the cold tile floor. I wrap the edge of the sheet around myself and move toward the bathroom.
The light inside is sharp against the candle-glow outside. I wince as it spills over me—pale skin, flushed cheeks, hair tangled at the nape. I step into the shower and twist the handle. The water hisses to life, rushing hot against my collarbone, then shoulders, spine.
Steam curls around me. I close my eyes and breathe in the heat.
Then the door creaks open.
I freeze but don’t turn.
There’s a pause. A step. The rustle of movement. And then the sound of the curtain shifting aside.
He steps in behind me like he belongs there.
I feel him before I see him—tall, broad, radiating heat that rivals the water. His voice is closer now, low and unhurried.
“Hit and run?”
I glance back over my shoulder, arching a brow. “Excuse me?”
He’s already reaching for me. One hand slides around my waist, firm and warm against my ribs.
“You weren’t planning on disappearing, were you?” he murmurs.
I can’t help it—I glance down. Then quickly back up.
My mouth lifts, dry. “Just how far of a libido do you have?”
He chuckles, and the sound vibrates in his chest. “Far enough.”
He reaches past me for the soap—a small white bar that smells like citrus and old wood. He rubs it between his hands, lathering slowly, before resting one palm on my shoulder and guiding the soap along my collarbone.
His touch is slow. Intentional. Fingers moving in circles that feel more like questions. “I like you,” he says.
I give a soft snort. “You probably say that to a lot of girls.”
