Page 90 of Blood Debt

“I’ve missed you,” Cristofano says, like that explains everything. His voice is low, husky with something that is not just relief.

I push at his chest, wriggling, but his grip doesn’t falter. He walks through the gates with long, unhurried strides, ignoring the weight of my protests. My bag lies forgotten on the gravel. “My bag—Cristofano!”

He doesn’t so much as glance back.

The grand facade of the mansion looms closer, windows glinting gold in the late afternoon light. Maids pause mid-step, trays in hand, eyes wide and whispering behind palms as we pass. Heat climbs my neck, my cheeks—red for all the wrong reasons.

By the time he reaches his room, my pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. He sets me down on the bed like I’m made of something fragile, but the imprint of his fingers remains at my waist. I tug my dress into place, smoothing the fabric with sharp, agitated motions, avoiding the intensity of his stare.

He’s smiling. Not the calculating one he wears in business meetings, but something softer, dangerous in its own way. “I prepared a bath for you,” he says, voice like velvet with steel beneath.

My eyes narrow. “Thank you…for making the entire staff look at me like I’ve lost my mind.”

His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there like he’s tasting me without moving an inch. When his eyes meet mine again, they gleam with quiet certainty. “They’ll get used to it,” he murmurs. “You’ll soon be the mistress of this house.”

I force a smile, and he says, “Let’s take a bath.”

****

The bathwater laps against porcelain, warm and scented faintly of bergamot. Steam curls upward in slow, lazy ribbons. His arms are solid bands around me, keeping me anchored against his chest as if letting me go would be unthinkable.

My hair clings damp to my cheeks, plastered there by the heat, and my bare skin is slick beneath the embrace of his muscled forearms. His mouth finds the curve of my neck, lingering, the kiss slow enough to feel deliberate.

“I want to marry you,” Cristofano murmurs, the words vibrating against my skin.

I tip my head just enough to glance at him. “Okay.”

His eyes search my face, surprise flickering in their steel depths. “That’s it? No argument?”

Inside, my answer is a blade: Marry you. Get the Black Book. End you. Return to my child. Forget you and move on. Out loud, my voice is even, almost deferential. “You’re powerful. I’m nothing. Why would I refuse?”

His gaze sharpens, but there’s no anger there—only a strange kind of reverence. “You’re everything.”

I force a smile. “If you say so.”

“You’ll understand it all soon,” he says, thumb stroking the inside of my wrist in a slow, claiming sweep. “We just have to get married and appease my father on the Blue Moon.”

I nod, playing the part. “Whatever you need.”

There’s a pause, a faint tightening of his arms. “Is there anything you need to tell me about yourself?”

Did he already find out about me? My pulse hammers. No way. If he knew, I’d be dead by now.

I make my face a mask. “No.”

His lips brush my throat again. “You feel like heaven,” he says, and his voice is soft enough to almost make me believe it.

His lips brush over the curve of my neck, sending shivers racing down my spine despite the heat.

“Do you miss me?” he murmurs, his voice low, teasing, almost daring me to admit it.

I open my mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out—my voice is stolen the second his hand dips lower, sliding under the water, between my thighs. The heat of his palm presses against my pussy, and I gasp, clinging to the edge of the tub.

His fingers stroke me through my folds, teasing, parting me open. The slickness of the bath makes every glide sharper, every touch magnified until I’m trembling. My clit throbs under the gentle brush of his thumb, aching for pressure. My hips jerk against his hand, shamelessly grinding down, begging for more.

One finger slips inside me. My walls squeeze around it instantly, greedy, sucking him in deeper. He curls, dragging along that tender, aching spot inside, and I cry out, the sound bouncing off the tile walls. Before I can recover, a second finger joins, pushing in beside the first. The stretch makes me whimper, my pussy tightening around him as his knuckles press hard against the opening.

“Fuck…” I gasp, nails digging into the porcelain edge.