No—
I twisted the stopper open. The scent hit me instantly.
Sweet. Heavy. Undeniable.
Peach.
My greatest allergy. My greatest vulnerability.
The same scent that had nearly killed me at the altar.
My throat tightened on instinct.
I slammed the stopper back in place and dropped the bottle onto the bed as if it had burned me.
My breath came shallower.
I stumbled back three steps, clutching my stomach as nausea surged through me in sick, rolling waves.
My throat tightened—not from anaphylaxis yet—but from memory. From fear.
From knowing exactly what this could do to me.
How did they know?
Vincenzo had known. Since we were children.
I had told him in that cave.
But the Alvarez family?
How?
My mind raced.
Was this a message?
A warning? A threat? A test?
My gaze dropped to the bottle again.
Resting on the bed.
Harmless. Beautiful. Deadly.
They hadn’t just sent a gift.
They had wrapped my death in silk and ribbon—and called it tradition.
I stood there—heart hammering, skin crawling—until the nausea finally loosened its grip.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
Like something being pulled back from the edge.
My breathing steadied in uneven increments. The tightness in my throat eased just enough for me to swallow without pain.
My fingers stopped trembling—barely.
