I don’t let myself break. I let myself bend.
“What if I want both,” my voice comes out more breathy than I intended. “The crown and the collar.”
He grins, slow and feral. “Then we cut the heads off of anyone who tries to tell you no.”
Finally, I understand that being untouchable wasn’t protection. It was just another cage. And Bam—maybe he’s the one beast in the world who can show me how to break out.
I don’t say yes. I don’t have to.
I just stand there, in the center of the room, and bask in the revelation that I am choosing this forme.
The world destroys my calm faster than I expect.
The cabin door doesn’t creak, it detonates, the knob embedded in the drywall and a cloud of splinters in its wake. Leone fills the gap, gun up, face a mask of pain. His right arm is limp, sleeve soaked through with blood and bent at an angle that would make a surgeon puke. The rest of him is still in full uniform—pressed suit, imported tie, shoes that cost more than a semester at Westpoint—but the shirt beneath is shredded and dark with red. He’s breathing hard, every inhale a visible wince, but the weapon in his left hand is steady.
Behind him, the porch light swings on its cord. There’s no one else.
He scans the room once, fast and precise, then zeroes in on me.
“Principessa,” he says, and then, voice cracked open, “Ciro is dead.”
The words drop into the cabin and flatten everything. Rhett grabs a gun off the counter. Julian, lounging on a bunk, sits up straight, his finger on the trigger. Isolde jerks upright and blinks, fingers already feeling for a knife.
Bam goes rigid, stepping half in front of me, but Leone’s gun is already leveled at his face.
No one speaks.
The blood in my veins freezes, then boils, then turns to a kind of syrup that sticks in my throat.
“Your father sent me,” Leone says. “The Kings have cleared the perimeter. Castillos are captured, or dead. But Boss wants you out. Now.”
There’s a beat where he just stands there, swaying slightly, then he sees the space between me and Bam, the way my bare feet angle instinctively toward the only threat that makes my heart skip. His eyes narrow. The gun doesn’t waver.
He spits blood onto the floor. “What did you do?”
I want to ask the same thing, but my mouth is dry.
Leone’s gaze flicks to my destroyed PJ’s, the new clothes, the Bonaccorso ring gleaming on my left hand. He’s reading the story in reverse, piecing together all the things I tried to hide in the dark.
“I told your father I’d keep you safe,” he says, voice dropping. “Instead, you’re here with them. You didn’t even try find us. We could have kept you safe.”
Bam takes a step forward, his hands up, showing empty palms. It’s a calculated move—he wants Leone to shoot him, or try. “She’s safe. No one’s touched her.”
“That’s not what I see.”
I want to say it doesn’t matter, that safety is a myth and the only thing I want is to feel alive, but the words tangle behind my teeth.
Leone’s gun moves, slow and inevitable, closer to Bam’s head. “Your father says you come home. Now. The Hunt is over. You don’t need to do this anymore.”
I glance at the others. Rhett is flushed, but his hand inches upwards, training the pistol on Leone, eyes narrowed to slits. Julian stands, posture so casual you’d think he’s at a party. Isolde is already moving, slow, circling in front of the table to protect Colt.
The room is a bomb. I’m the fuse.
“How did Ciro die?” I say, because I have to know.
Leone’s mouth shakes. “Shot in the head. He killed three before he went down, but—” he shakes his head, the pain too much, “—there was nothing I could do.”
A chunk of me crumbles off and falls through the floor.
