The thought snagged in my mind. How much had Angelo paid him to steal the shard? It had to have been substantial—Angelo didn’t deal in small numbers. But Rocco had never told me. I’d never asked. There hadn’t exactly been a quiet moment between the biting, the kidnapping, and the fleeing across an ocean on dragonback.
I filed it away. Another question for another time. Tonight wasn’t about money or pride or the tangled mess of debts between dangerous men.
Tonight was about survival. Sex. And possibly sleep.
Darius handed Rocco a keycard. Rocco took it without a word, his jaw still tight, and led me through the front door of the hotel.
The lobby was small and charming—polished wood floors, antique furniture that looked like it had been there for centuries, lace doilies on every surface. But it was the paintings that stopped me cold.
Vlad the Impaler. Everywhere.
He hung above the fireplace in a gilded frame—dark eyes, sharp features, that iconic mustache. Another portrait graced the wall beside the staircase, this one depicting him on horseback, sword raised, leading a charge against the Ottoman army. A glass case near the reception desk held replicas of his armor and a small placard describing his heroic defense of Romania.
A hero. That’s what they called him here. The brave prince who’d defended his homeland against invaders. Who’d impaled his enemies on stakes as a warning. Statues in town squares. His face on postcards and coffee mugs.
If they only knew what he’d really become. What he’d traded his soul for in a blood-soaked castle hidden in the mountains above their heads.
Rocco’s eyes lingered on the largest portrait. I couldn’t read his expression, but I saw his throat work before he turned away.
The hotel was only two stories. Our room was the last one at the end of a narrow hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath our feet with every step. Rocco slid the keycard in, the lock clicked, and he pushed the door open.
Our room was small but clean—a large canopy bed with a lace coverlet dominated the space, and an antique armoire stood against the far wall, its dark wood carved with delicate floral patterns. Under any other circumstances, it might have been romantic.
He was shutting down. I could see it — the walls going back up, the guilt pulling him under. He'd just admitted he felt useless, and now he was retreating into that dark place where he convinced himself he deserved nothing.
I wasn't going to let him go there. Not tonight. Not after everything we'd survived.
I slipped my arms around Rocco’s stiff neck. His body was rigid, that wounded pride radiating off him like heat from a furnace.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he grumbled.
I cocked my eyebrow. “You’re not fooling me, Rocco Palazzo.”
He tried to hold the mask in place, but it crumbled under my gaze the way it always did when I pushed. His shoulders saggedand a heavy sigh escaped him—the kind that carried the weight of two years of self-imposed exile.
“Never thought I would fall so low.” His voice was quiet. Bitter. “A prince who can’t pay for a hotel room.”
I cupped his cheek, turning his face toward mine. Those dark eyes were burning with shame, and it broke something inside me to see it.
“One of these days, you need to forgive yourself and stop punishing yourself.”
His jaw flexed beneath my palm. “How do you propose I do that? My family hates me. I can’t even flip burgers.” A hollow laugh escaped him. “I went from a palace to a grease trap, Selena. And I couldn’t even hold onto that.”
The rawness in his voice made my chest ache. This man—this stubborn, infuriating, beautiful man—had been drowning in guilt for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe.
I was done watching him drown.
“Let me show you what I know.” I held his gaze as I gripped the hem of his shirt and lifted it over his head. He didn’t resist. His eyes darkened, the shame flickering into something else as I pressed my palms flat against his bare chest and pushed him backward toward the bed.
His knees hit the edge and he sat. I stood over him, my fingers threading into his hair, tilting his face up to mine.
“I know that you crossed an ocean to save a baby you’d never met. I know that you stood between me and a demon without flinching.” I leaned down, my lips brushing his. “I know that a man who can’t forgive himself for hurting someone he loves isn’t evil. He’s good. So good it’s destroying him.”
His hands found my hips, his fingers pressing into me like I was the only solid thing in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet.
“Now stop talking,” I whispered against his mouth, “and let me remind you what you’re worth.”
