“Lucy, what are you—”
“The point is,” she interrupts, her voice fierce now as she turns back to me, “if you have even a chance at real love with Vincenzo, take it.” Her hand tightens on mine. “Don’t let fear stop you.”
Such optimism from Lucy seems wildly out of character, but her emotions seem like they’re teetering on a razor’s edge right now, so I decide not to push her for an explanation.
I squeeze her hand back. “Thank you. For everything. For still being my friend after I disappeared.”
“Always,” Lucy says firmly. “We Malus girls have to stick together, right?”
I manage a small smile. “Right.”
As we finish our coffee and talk about safer things like classes, professors, and the upcoming Corinthia charity gala that Lucy has to attend, my mind keeps circling back to her words.
Could I have a chance of real love with Vincenzo Vici?
I remember Mrs. Vici’s smile as she and her family crossed the ballroom floor toward me. I remember her kindness, calling me lovely, telling me we’d be family soon. I remember her reaching for her daughter as she died, their blood mixing on the pristine marble.
The screams. The gunshots. The way the chandelier trembled overhead, raining crystal tears onto the massacre below.
With a shudder, I push the stupid, hopeful thought away.
Vincenzo can never love the woman who led his family to their doom. He can only desire my painful demise.
Cold night airdrifts through the balcony doors as I lay in my bed, staring through the parted curtains at the starry sky. I twist the ribbons on my white nightgown, focusing on the satin so that I don’t succumb to the burning in my eyes. I don’t like the freezing wind biting into my flesh, even less so after Pietro locked me on the balcony.
But the cold has its uses. It keeps me awake.
Sleep brings nightmares, and lately those nightmares have become even more blood-soaked and violent. In my dreams, Vincenzo kills me in a dozen different ways, all of them painful and violent. In some, he uses a knife. In others, his bare hands around my throat. The worst ones are when he makes me watch as he kills everyone I’ve ever loved, saving me for last so I die knowing I’m alone in the world.
The house is quiet except for the grandfather clock in the hallway, ticking away the hours.
It’s been nine days since Vincenzo demanded Dad give me to him as penance for murdering his family. Nine days of looking over my shoulder and flinching at shadows, waiting for Vincenzo to reappear and either claim me or kill me.
There are roses in my room. Cream, long-stemmed roses in a crystal vase that Dad has delivered every week. Demure and expensive and empty of fragrance. I miss the garden roses Mom used to grow, the ones with petals bursting with rich fragrance.
I can hear the guards down there, standing in the moonlight, talking and smoking cigarettes. Occasionally I hear their laughter, and I hate them for their careless ease. They’re not overly concerned about me escaping. I’m not a nimble escape artist. Most of Dad’s bodyguards and soldiers have witnessed me close my eyes in fear as we drive across a high bridge. The only reason I managed to run away from Dad the first time was because they were all distracted by hunting down Vincenzo.
A few feet away, there’s a soft, muted thump.
My breath catches. My eyes widen. Nothing seems immediately amiss, but I sit up on my elbows and peer around my room. There are deep shadows in the corners, dark pools of nothing that could conceal a killer. I stare into each of them with my heart hammering in my throat.
Several minutes crawl by. No sound. No movement.
I force myself to breathe. I must have been imagining things. I’ve barely slept in over a week, so of course I’m hearing things.
Still, the yawning opening of my balcony has started to unnerve me, so I slip out of bed, cross to the double glass doors, and close them.
“A good idea. Gives us some privacy.”
The purring voice comes from behind me, low, dark, and familiar.
I whirl around with a gasp that’s almost a scream, my heart lurching into my throat.
There, one shoulder propped against my bedpost, all sleek darkness and danger with a smirk on his lips, is Vincenzo Vici.
Fear spikes through me, but it’s immediately followed by a rush of heat that has nothing to do with terror. He’s in my bedroom. My most private space. The realization causes liquid heat to pool low in my belly. My eyes track over him helplessly. The way he leans against the bedpost like he owns everything he surveys. The casual confidence in his stance. How his shirtstretches across his muscles. He’s so close to my bed. The bed where I sleep, the bed where we could—
My cheeks flame. I’m suddenly, painfully aware that I’m in my nightgown, that my legs are bare, and that there’s only a few feet between us and falling into that bed together. What would it be like? Him in my bed. His hands on me. His body covering mine. My nipples tighten against the thin fabric.
