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“No?” I shift my weight, letting her feel exactly how much I disagree.

Color flushes her cheeks, a war of emotion raging beneath the surface. I see her pulse flutter in her throat. I feel the tension winding through her body like a drawn bow.

“I hate you,” she whispers.

“I know.” I release her wrists, but keep her caged in, my arms braced on either side of her. “But tell me something,dolcezza. When you planned this assault—when you dreamed of my ruin—did you ever stop to wonder what would happen when you lost?”

She doesn’t answer. Her chin lifts in that stubborn, proud way that makes me want to both kiss and break her.

“I didn’t plan on losing.”

“Didn’t you?” I lower my voice to a whisper, dragging it across her skin like a blade. “Because every step led you here. To me. Alone. Defenseless.”

I trail my lips along her jaw, not quite touching, just close enough to make her breath catch.

“Tell me,” I murmur, lips at her ear. “Were you going to kill me?”

Her sharp intake of breath is answer enough, but I want to hear her say it. Want to drag the truth from those lying lips.

“Tell me,” I whisper. Again. “If you won, Aria. Would you have brought me down with my empire?”

“Stop,” she gasps, her voice sharp, defiant—but her breath is shaky.

I ignore it.

“I think about you,” I murmur, keeping my tone low, steady. “Every fucking night.”

She stands her ground, but I can see the storm behind her eyes—fury, pain, fire.

“I dream about the night we made our child,” I whisper, my gaze dropping briefly to the place between us, my hand moving to rest over her still-flat stomach.

“Marco—” she warns, her voice trembling, not with desire but restraint.

“You can lie to yourself all you want,” I say, moving closer. Close enough that the air tightens between us. “You can gather armies and declare war and spit hatred in my face. But deep down, you know the truth.”

Her jaw sets. Her hands flex at her sides.

Then—she moves.

In a single, clean motion, her fingers dart to the holster at my side. I feel the shift a half-second too late.

And suddenly, my gun is in her hand—pressed flat against the center of my forehead. She steps back, just enough to put space between us, just enough to make me feel the distance. But the barrel never wavers.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Her grip is steady. Her voice is like ice.

“You say you love me? Then why is the only version of me you can live with the one who kneels?”

I step forward like I’m still in control.

“Drop another inch and I shoot,” she says, voice like splintered steel.

“Still dramatic, I see.”

She tilts the gun upward, barrel pointed at my forehead.

“Don’t come closer. I swear to God, Marco?—”

“Or what?” I take a step forward. “You’ll kill me?”