Page 43 of Blood Debt
I sigh.
“Get out,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m getting in the shower.”
I stand and stretch my arms above my head until my spine cracks. My shoulders ache, and the motion makes my stomach curl again.
I hear her rise behind me.
And then her arms are around my waist.
Her face presses into my back. Her perfume blooms against my skin.
“Cristofano,” she murmurs. “Do you really not want me?”
Her voice is softer. No flirtation.
Just a question. One she might not want the answer to.
I go still. Her arms tighten just slightly.
I should pull her off.
But instead, my mind moves without me—to another woman. One who didn’t paint herself in desire. One who bowed without looking me in the eye. One whose hands shook when they touched me—but still touched. Serafina.
My breath deepens. I can still smell her. Lavender and soap. I can still see her—eyes wide, flushed cheeks, lips parted just slightly like she was afraid to breathe near me.
I turn.
Alessandra’s arms fall to her sides.
I take her wrists, gently, and lower them.
“You’re beautiful,” I say.
She watches me closely.
“You’re strong. Clever. You’ve been trained for this world, and you wear it better than most men I know.”
Her mouth twitches. Just slightly.
“But I won’t lie to you. You deserve more than being tolerated. You deserve to be wanted back.”
Her lashes lower.
“I’m not him,” I add. “Not for you.”
She blinks.
Then speaks in Italian—quiet, certain: “Io voglio te.”
I want you.
I open my mouth.
The door crashes open. Alessandra jumps, startled.
I turn sharply, my hand half-raised—
And freeze. She’s standing in the doorway.
