Page 93 of Blood Debt
She glances up, then tilts her head, a slow smile forming. “Why don’t you go first?”
It’s an artful deflection. I lean back on my palms, letting the silence stretch as I break a piece of bread. “I didn’t have much of a childhood. Every year was about surviving someone else’s attempt to end us. My mother was sick for as long as I can remember… she died when I was seventeen. My father…he’s still alive, but weaker now. Back then, he stood like a wall between me and the world. When his heart failed two years later, I was nineteen and running everything.”
I glance at her. She’s listening—really listening—the soft furrow between her brows deepening as she chews slowly, her gaze fixed on me instead of her plate.
“That’s a lot,” she says finally, voice low. “You were still a boy.”
I shrug, tearing another piece of bread. “Boys don’t last long in my world.”
Her eyes hold mine for a beat longer, the green flecked with gold catching the late sun. “You’ve been through a lot,” she murmurs, and there’s something in her tone…not pity, exactly. Something softer. “You’re…quite the hero.”
The corner of my mouth lifts, but I don’t answer. Instead, I pour her more wine, watching the way her fingers curl around the stem and wondering what it would take for her to tell me something real.
I lean in, elbows on my knees, watching her. “What about you?”
For the smallest fraction of a second, something flickers in her eyes, but the rest of her stays maddeningly calm. She even tilts her head, like she’s about to answer.
Before she can, my phone buzzes. I ignore it.
It buzzes again, sharper this time, and she gestures to it with her glass. “Take the call. I’ll…entertain myself.”
She rises, the sundress swaying against her legs, and takes her wine with her. I watch her walk away, slow, deliberate steps toward the edge of the clearing. The ache in my chest surprises me; I don’t want her too far out of reach.
I swipe the screen. “What?”
“It’s Matteo,” comes the voice on the other end. “Shipment’s here. I need your sign-off before distribution—”
I’m already scanning the clearing while he talks. “Handle it. You don’t need me for—”
A sharp yell slices through the air.
My head whips around. She’s not where she was. Instead—
Serafina is tipping backward, arms flailing, the glass of wine flying from her fingers in a red arc. Behind her, nothing but the sudden drop of a ledge.
“Elia!”
I’m on my feet before Matteo can say another word, phone forgotten in the grass, my pulse slamming against my ribs.
The phone is gone—somewhere in the grass, maybe still connected to Matteo, but I don’t care. My focus narrows to the sight in front of me.
She’s dangling over the drop.
One foot is braced awkwardly on the very lip of the ledge, the other scrabbling against crumbling earth. Her fingers are dug into a jut of rock, knuckles white. The slope beneath her falls steep into a bed of jagged stone and water rushing far below.
“Elia!” My voice cracks, the name ripped from my throat.
Her head whips toward me, eyes wide, hair whipping in the breeze. “C–Cristofano—” Her voice is shaking so hard it barely reaches me.
I’m already on my knees at the edge, arm outstretched. “Give me your hand!”
She doesn’t move. The wind roars between us, and for a second I see the calculation in her eyes—hesitation, fear…maybe something else. My pulse pounds harder.
“Don’t think, just reach!” My voice is sharp, desperate. The dirt under her foot gives way an inch, and she gasps, clutching the rock tighter. “Elia—trust me.”
Her lip trembles. She’s shaking now, her whole body trembling from strain and terror. “I can’t—”
“You can!” I’m close enough now that I can see the tears on her cheeks, the way her shoulders jerk with each sob. My ownchest feels like it’s caving in. “Look at me. I’m not letting you go. Do you hear me? Not now, not ever.”
