Later, much later, after he’s cleaned me up, I lie in his massive bed with silk sheets tangled around my body. Alaric sleeps beside me, one arm thrown possessively across my waist.
Through the windows, dawn light creeps across the grounds I once tried so desperately to escape.
I’m a Moretti now. For better or worse.
14
KASI
I wakeup alone in his sheets that smell like him.
The bed is bigger in the daylight. Sunlight streams through tall windows, showing off expensive furniture and artwork that costs more than most people make in a lifetime. My body aches in places I forgot could ache.
Every movement reminds me of last night, of his hands on my skin, of the way he made me scream his name until my voice went hoarse.
I hate that I want more.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
“Mrs. Moretti?” Maria’s voice carries through the heavy door. “I’m here to take you to your room.”
I sit up, wincing as sore muscles protest. “Come in.”
Maria enters carrying a silk robe the color of cream. Her eyes are kind but knowing as she approaches the bed.
“Mr. Moretti thought you might like to see your new quarters,” she says, offering the robe. “Your belongings have been moved, and breakfast is waiting.”
I slip into the robe. My legs shake slightly as I stand. He really did ruin me last night.
“Lead the way.”
Maria chatters about the weather and the estate’s daily routine as we walk through the hallways, but I’m only half listening.
“Here we are,” she says, opening double doors at the end of a long corridor.
The room takes my breath away.
It’s enormous, with rich brown hardwood floors that gleam like honey. A chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling, crystal drops catching the morning light. Tall bookshelves line one wall, complete with a rolling ladder that makes me think of old libraries. Paintings cover the other walls—landscapes and portraits that look genuinely valuable.
The bed dominates the space, easily as big as the one I just left. The covers are already turned down, revealing cream-colored sheets that look impossibly soft.
“This is mine?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am. Your private suite. The bathroom is through that door, and there’s a small dining area by the windows.”
I walk to the bookshelf and run my fingers along the leather spines. Philosophy, literature, history. Actual books not just props.
“Would you like breakfast here or in the main dining room?” Maria asks.
“Here.”
“Of course. I’ll have it brought up immediately.”
She leaves me alone to explore. The bathroom is marble and gold, with a tub big enough for three people. The dining area overlooks gardens where peacocks strut across manicured lawns.
This isn’t a prison cell. This is a palace.
By the time I shower and dress in clothes that appeared in the wardrobe overnight, breakfast arrives on a silver cart. Real silver. The food is restaurant quality—fresh fruit, pastries that flake at the touch, coffee that smells like heaven.
