“Stop fucking lying!” he roars, his face inches from mine, his breath thick with metal and something rotten. He snatches the fallen phone and hurls it into the undergrowth. “You will listen. When. I. Speak.”
His hand clamps around my throat. My pulse hammers against his palm, frantic, helpless.
“You stole him from me!” His voice breaks into something feral. “My heir. My legacy. My blood.”
Panic spikes through me, white-hot and blinding. No. No, please—not this. Not him.
I lock my jaw, swallowing the sound clawing up my throat. I cannot break. I cannot give him anything.
He studies my face like he’s dissecting every flicker, every breath—searching for confirmation, for guilt, for weakness.
“You really thought I wouldn’t find out?” His laugh is jagged. “I knew the day you gave birth. I knew the minute you hid him. I knew.”
He steps back half an inch, just enough to look at me fully—but the dagger stays raised, gleaming like a promise.
“He has my eyes, Beatrice.” His smile is ruinous. “You tried to bury the truth under another man’s name. Another man’s power. But he is mine. He is a Feriama.”
My throat is raw when I force the words out. “He’s not. He is Matteo’s. He’s a Davacalli.”
The slap comes so fast I don’t see it—only feel the crack of pain explode across my face. My skull hits the tree again, bark tearing my scalp as stars burst behind my eyes.
“Don’t fucking lie to me!” he bellows.
His fist twists in my hair, yanking my head back cruelly. My vision jerks. A tear escapes simply from the shock.
“You should be kissing my feet for letting you live. For sparing your precious family.” His voice drops lower, darker.“Don’t mistake my mercy for weakness, cara mia. I will slit your throat and sleep like a child.”
His hand moves from my hair back to my neck, squeezing harder. The world narrows to the crush of his fingers and the sharp press of the blade at my collarbone.
“Your lies,” he snarls. “Your betrayal. You cursed your own womb with it. That’s why you couldn’t give him an heir. That’s why Matteo parades my son like a trophy—a lie wrapped in his name.”
Heat burns behind my eyes—not fear, but fury. The words cut deeper than any knife. My womb. My child. How dare he?—
“I’ve watched you.” He releases me suddenly, and I fall to my knees, air tearing into my lungs in ragged bursts. “For eight long years, I watched. I waited. I planned.”
He crouches beside me, the dagger gently tapping under my chin.
“And now,” he whispers, “I take back what’s mine.”
A sudden buzz fractures the moment.
My phone—thrown into the leaves—lights up. Valerio’s name flashes across the screen like a lifeline cutting through the dark.
My chest heaves, sharp and ragged. I press a hand over my heart as if I can will it back into rhythm, but it only pounds harder, louder, drowning out the world.
The ground tilts. My hands tremble. My knees threaten to give way.
“Beatrice.”
The sound is distant at first, then clearer, closer, cutting through the ringing in my ears.
“Beatrice.”
Arms wrap around me—strong, sure, anchoring. The scent of leather and spice hits me before the warmth does.
Valerio.
I clutch his jacket like a lifeline. My fingers curl into the fabric, pulling him in as if he’s the only thing tethering me to the earth. I bury my face against his chest and squeeze my eyes shut.
