Page 68 of Betrayed By Sin
He steps forward and takes my hands like he’s anchoring himself, like he’s anchoring me. His palms are warm, callused, familiar. Home. “Marry me,” he pleads, “Marry me instead.”
My lips part and close again without a sound. I hold his hands tighter because I don’t trust my legs to hold me.
“If you marry me, they can’t touch you,” he goes on. His voice breaks on the next line, quick and ragged with feeling. “They can’t force you into a deal. You’ll already belong to me.”
Belong. The word threads through me and warms like sunlight on cold skin. It’s not ownership, God, it can’t be that, but the idea of a place to stand that isn’t built on blood and bargains. I breathe, and the night fills me with it.
“Sin…” I start, and my name from his mouth is both a question and a blessing.
He presses his thumb to the inside of my wrist, a small, steadying motion. “I know it’s fast,” he says, and I hear the urgency like a sob. “I know it’s insane. But it’s the only way to stop this before it’s too late. Let me be the one who decides your future. Not them.”
He leans in closer; the smell of mint and smoke andhimwraps around my senses. His face is close enough that I couldcount the faint freckles across his nose if the moon were brighter. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, and for a second I forget how to be anything other than present, eyes and hands and breath and blood.
Tears burn behind my lids. “You’re asking me to go against my family,” I say, and the sentence trembles because the truth of it is both a blade and a release.
His mouth softens into something I’ve only seen in the rare seconds when he lets his guard go. “I’m asking you to choose.” There’s a patience under his words that I didn’t know he had. “Choose us.”
I close my eyes because the world is splitting into two sharp edges, and I am standing on the seam. The Rusco’s. The house that taught me how to hold my tongue, to measure my steps, to hide the parts of me that would make me vulnerable. The Donati’s. Fire and storm, the family that taught me how to stand up and bite back. I have always been pulled between them like a tide. Saying yes feels like treason and salvation at the same time.
“I don’t belong to the Rusco’s,” I whisper to the night. “I don’t belong to the Donati’s.” The confession tastes like iron and relief combined. “But maybe, I want to belong with you. Not to you. With you.”
He laughs, a sound that is surprise and joy and something tender. “I know that,” he murmurs, and the joy in his eyes makes something in my chest loosen. Then his grin turns dangerous in that way I love. “But I still like the thought of you being mine.” He leans in until his breath ghosts my mouth. “Mind, body, and soul.”
My answer trembles on my lips like a bird. “What if I say yes?” The question is small and vast.
His thumb brushes my lower lip, and when he speaks, his voice is a vow folded into a whisper. “Then you’ll never have to wonder if you’re free again. I’ll stand between you and whateverthey send. I’ll fight for you. I’ll make this world learn your name on your terms.”
He reaches into his coat, fingers closing on something small and cool that glints faintly in the lamplight.
It’s a ring, but not the usual plain diamond you see in movies. This is something made to be remembered. The band is obsidian, dark as a storm cloud but polished so the edges catch light. The center stone isn’t a conventional diamond; it’s a custom-cut cognac diamond, honeyed and warm at its core, shot through with tiny, internal flashes that make it look like morning light trapped in amber. Flanking it are two slender sapphires the color of the midnight ocean, set like small watchful moons. The setting is hands-on: tiny claws, almost vine-like, that hold the stone as if it were a living thing. Along the inner band, a narrow strip of rose-gold peeks through, where a delicate inscription is stamped, small enough to be intimate, only for me.
Fino all’ultimo respiro
“What does this mean?” I wipe a falling tear.
“Until the last breath.”
When I extend my hand he slides it onto my finger, the metal is cool and then it warms, settling as if it belonged there already.
“This is… so stunning Sin,” I whisper. My voice comes out thin and ridiculous. The ring takes up space on my hand and in my chest all at once.
His mouth tilts. “I didn’t want your family’s gold,” he says softly. “I wanted something that felt like you.”
“You had this made,” I say, staring at the tiny midnight sapphires. “This wasn’t… last minute. When did you say you found out about the wedding?”
“Two days ago.” His fingers find the edge of the band, rubbing the curve in a small, private gesture. “I had it designed months ago. I sent sketches, then samples.” He casts his eyes up, amused and tender. “Magnolia.”
“So, this isn’t because of them,” I say. “Not because of the bullet or the threats.” The park hums low around us, crickets small as static. The fountain tip-taps like a nervous metronome. “This was always going to happen. You were planning to ask when you got me back.”
Sin’s thumb brushes the top of the ring, over the tiny cut of the cognac stone. “I was going to do it when things felt right, when you realized I was your future and despite a ground war, we were meant to be.” He looks at me, and his eyes are all of the places I want to be. “This isn’t improvisation. This vow was made in quiet rooms months before anyone came knocking.”
My hands tremble around his. “So, all of this, bringing me here, this wedding…” I say the words with venom. “That didn’t force your hand?”
“It forced the timing,” he admits. His laugh is soft, almost a sob. “The threat on your life.” His fists clench, “Everything going on… your sham wedding that’s being held tomorrow against your wishes. I wasn’t going to let them make our timeline for us but I wanted to ask you because I wanted to askyou. I need to now.”
Tears sting; I swallow them down because there is a fierceness in me now, a part that wants to match him blow for blow. “You could have just…told me,” I say, voice raw.
He touches the corner of my mouth with a finger, gentle enough I flinch at the contrast with his usual roughness. “I wanted to make sure you were back in my arms before I asked,” he says. “I wanted you free to answer. Not cornered. Not bargaining. Free.”
