Outside, the night air bit at my skin, still warm from his embrace.
I took one of his sleek and dark horses and rode hard into the black, my body still pulsing with the rhythm he’d left inside me. The ride was wild, my thighs trembling with each gallop, not from fear, but from memory.
When I reached home, I dismounted and slapped the horse’s flank, watching it disappear into the darkness. I crept into the house, my steps feather-soft against the stone floor.
Almost there. Almost safe.
I reached the staircase, only a few steps from freedom, when a sudden flame flared to life.
I gasped, spinning around.
My father stood in the shadows, a candle in hand—its lightcatching the sharp angle of his jaw and the fury burning in his eyes. His face was carved in equal parts rage and disappointment.
“Papa!” I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest. “What a fright you gave me.”
His eyes narrowed, his expression carved from stone. “You’ve been seeing Balthazar, haven’t you?”
There was no point in denying it. His voice already held the truth he didn’t need confirmed.
“Yes, Papa,” I said, lifting my chin. My voice rang out clear, defiant. “I have. And I shall continue to do so.”
The sound came fast—a crack of flesh on flesh.
His hand struck my cheek.
I froze.
He had never hit me before. Not once, not through all my disobedience and rebellion. The sting was sharp, but the deeper wound was shock. Betrayal.
My palm flew to my face, heat blooming beneath my fingers. I stared at him, lip curled with scorn. “What have you done to me?”
“You need to get married and settle down,” he said, his voice like iron. “You need to become the woman you were raised to be.”
My fists clenched at my sides, trembling with the effort to hold back tears. Not from pain, but fury. His words weren’t new, but they never failed to ignite that old fire—the one that raged every time he treated me like a possession—a tool. A daughter was forged only to be given away.
“You don’t know me,” I spat.
He stepped closer. “Then go to Giovanni Zampa’s house and learn the truth of who you are.”
“Why should I?” I shot back.
But deep inside, the question took root.
What truth?
He met my gaze steadily. “Because it’s time you discovered what’s been hidden from you. You have the right to know.”
“I won’t do it!” I screamed, the heat of humiliation and rage surging through me. “I hate you! You’re not my father!”
Without waiting for his reply, I turned on my heel and stormed up the stairs, anger and confusion chasing me like shadows.
Alone in my room, I stared at my reflection in the darkenedglass. My cheek still throbbed. The mark of his slap wasn’t just on my skin—it was inside me now, branding this night into memory.
I thought of Balthazar.
Of the things we’d done.
Of the monster I craved and the power I feared.
