He’d seen him.
My heart thundered in my chest, not just from fear, but from something else. The knowledge that Balthazar had been so close, watching me from the veil of shadows, sent a thrill racing down my spine.
Dread and desire twined inside me, coiling tighter with every beat of my heart.
Would he come for me?
Did he know I wanted him to?
The ache deepened. A dangerous yearning that lived somewhere between memory and madness.
“May I be excused?” I asked softly, taming my voice into something sweet and composed.
Zampa nodded, dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. “Of course. But keep practicing. I’ll test you again tomorrow.”
I crossed the room with careful grace, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for your kindness, Signor.”
His gaze darkened with determination. “I will do anything to keep you safe until the ritual is complete. But first… fetch me my whiskey before you go.”
“Yes, of course,” I replied with a pleasant smile.
If Zampa needed whiskey before noon, he was more afraid than he let on.
And so was I.
I moved swiftly into the drawing room, retrieving a tall bottle of rich amber whiskey from the cabinet. I paused. My fingers curled around the crystal stopper.
Then—
I drank.
A deep swallow.
The liquor burned as it slid down my throat, but I welcomed the heat. It settled in my belly like fire and steel, spreading through my limbs until the fear dissolved into a reckless buzz.
I returned to his study, tumbler in hand, and set both bottle and glass on the polished mahogany desk. His eyes didn’t meet mine. He was lost in his thoughts.
Without another word, I turned and slipped away.
Upstairs, I locked the door behind me and collapsed onto the bed, tension still deep in my core.
But the whiskey’s fire lingered.
And with it came the ache.
I shut my eyes, letting my hand drift beneath my skirts, seeking relief from the hunger that had gripped me since the funeral.
I tugged up the layers of fabric, my breath hitching as my fingers slid into the wet heat between my thighs. I gasped softly, back arching against the sheets.
I imagined Balthazar’s hands replacing mine—rough, commanding, worshipful in their destruction.
I imagined his mouth on my skin, his voice in my ear, whispering twisted praises as he buried himself inside me.
I came quickly, but it brought no satisfaction.
No peace.
Only more torment.
