Before I can answer, she rises onto her toes and presses her mouth to mine. The kiss is gentle, fleeting, but it steals mybreath all the same. My hands twitch, aching to hold her, but I don’t lift them. They’re covered in blood, and I don’t want to stain her pretty dress.
Her palms find my chest instead, pressing lightly against me. Heat flares under her touch—and then pain. A sharp sting that makes me suck in a breath before I can stop myself.
Evi stills, her fingers tentative as they slide lower, and when she pulls them away, they’re slick with crimson. Her eyes widen as she stares down at her hands, blood dripping from her fingertips.
“Sandro…” Her voice breaks on my name, half whisper, half gasp. “You’re hurt.”
Oops.
I glance down for the first time, really looking. Since Miko pointed it out earlier, the front of my shirt has been soaked through, the black fabric darker where blood has seeped into it. I’ve lost a considerable amount of blood.
But I don’t flinch. Don’t let it show.
“It’s nothing,” I assure her, though the cut must be deep if I’m bleeding this badly.
Evi’s gaze snaps up to mine, horrified.
14
EVI
It’s nevernotgoing to be daunting, watching Sandro step into the foyer, dripping sweat, blood splattered across his shirt and hands, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead. He looks every inch a soldier, and something about that sight fills me with equal parts dread and… fascination.
Because it’s not just gore. It’s proof of how hard he fights, how determined he is to win, no matter the cost. Sandro is a man in full, carved from steel and fire, ready to pit himself against the entire world if that’s what it takes. And that stirs something in me. Something fierce. Something proud. He’s a warrior, like my brothers, but unlike them, he’s fighting not to earn a name or climb the ranks but to defend his family.
During one of our late nights waiting for the men to return home this week, Anika told me everything. I’d never heard the reason behind their need for an alliance with my family—the story of how the Tanakas formed an alliance with the Chiaroscuros only to betray them. How it cost Sandro and his brothers almost everything. But now I know. Their father is gone, their empirefractured, and Sandro’s loyalty to his brothers is the blinding force that drives him.
This mess of sweat and crimson—means more than territory. It means devotion.
And I want to be worthy of that. Even if I can’t give him children, even if my body has already failed in ways he doesn’t yet know, I can be supportive. I can prove I’m a good wife in other ways. I want to show him the same kind of dedication and loyalty that he gives his family.
But when I finally reach him, and my fingers brush his chest, coming away slick with blood, all my thoughts scatter.
“Sandro…” I whisper, horrified to realize it’s too wet, too warm to be anyone’s blood but his own. “You’re hurt.”
He dismisses it with a grunt, as though my worry is unnecessary. “It’s nothing.”
Nothing?Now that I look more closely at the dark fabric, his shirt is soaked through with it. Instinct roars to life inside me, deeper than reason, sharper than fear as my pulse quickens, and adrenaline floods my veins. I need to help him, to take care of him.
“Let me see it,” I say firmly.
His eyes—dark and unreadable—find mine. He looks almost… surprised, like he expected me to shrink back from the blood, not move closer. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll live.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t need help.” My voice quavers, but I plant my feet, refusing to give an inch. “Please. At least let me clean it.”
For a long moment, it’s a battle of wills. His silence stretches, making my pulse flutter anxiously.
Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, he nods once. “Fine.”
I don’t waste another second. “Upstairs,” I say, already moving, glancing back to make sure he follows.
He does, though he’s slow, his gait stiff, so different from the graceful way he usually prowls the halls. I don’t let myself think too hard about how badly he might be hurt. If I dwell on it, panic will choke me. Better to focus on what I can do. As I round the corner, I catch the sound of his brothers calling after him, asking if everything’s alright. I barely catch Sandro’s gruff reply as he waves them off to keep pace behind me.
Despite the considerable amount of blood loss, he still seems steady on his feet by the time we reach our suite, so I shut the door firmly behind us and motion toward the bathroom.
“Sit,” I tell him, pointing to the edge of the counter. “I need light.”
His brows lift, as if he’s surprised that I could somehow have grown bolder in the last five minutes. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he shrugs out of his ruined shirt, and my breath catches as his torso comes into view.
