Page 21

It starts with a sharp snap behind my eyes—like something brittle breaking under pressure. I sit up in bed, my breath hitching. Something is different. There are pieces floating just beneath the surface. Pieces of me. Of before.

I press my hands into the mattress as my chest tightens. My stomach twists like I’ve been punched. My mind feels swollen, crammed full of images that don’t quite fit together, but some of them slip through. I see myself—young, desperate, broken.

I remember closing my eyes and jumping. The rooftop. The rain. The wind pulling at me as I let go, as I fell. And I prayed, not for survival, but for death. For release.

The memory is fragmented. I can’t see what came after, but the feeling remains—raw, sharp, bleeding.

Tears sting my eyes. I clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle the sob. My fingers tremble. My breath comes in short gasps. I don’t understand it all. But I feel it. I feel everything.

I swing my legs over the bed, planting my feet onto the cold floor. The chill grounds me for a second. My body aches everywhere. My ribs pull tight when I move, but I force myself to lean forward, opening the side table drawer.

The little key sits inside, waiting for me.

My fingers curl around it. The cold metal presses into my palm like it’s mocking me. What do you open? I whisper silently. What are you hiding from me?

I stare at the key for a long second before gently placing it back inside. I shut the drawer slowly, the click echoing in the quiet room. The silence wraps around me like a noose. The walls seem closer now, pressing in on me, heavy, suffocating.

My body feels like a cage—skin stretched over old wounds I can’t see but feel. I grip handfuls of my hair, digging my nails into my scalp, and I scream. A long, guttural scream that rips straight from my chest. My head throbs violently. My vision blurs as I fall to the floor, curling into myself.

The pain pulls more memories free. I’m running. The long hallway stretches endlessly before me. My bare feet slap against the floor. My nightdress clings to my skin, damp with tears. I see him—Serevin.

He’s ahead of me, his back turned, walking away. He’s in his nightclothes, moving steadily, coldly. He doesn’t turn around.

I catch up, fall to my knees, clutching at the fabric of his pants like a drowning woman. My voice cracks as I beg.

“Please…please, love me. Forgive me. Don’t leave me.”

His body stiffens, but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t speak. His hand brushes mine off his leg. He steps away from me like I’m nothing but air. Like I don’t exist.

I crumble, collapsing fully onto the floor of that hallway, sobbing as his shadow disappears into the dark.

The memory fades, but the pain remains. My entire body convulses on the cold floor of my bedroom now. Sweat drenches my skin. My hair sticks to my face. My ribs burn. My chest heaves. I gasp for breath, gripping the edge of the nightstand for support.

I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, my breath coming in harsh, ragged bursts.

I don’t remember everything. Not yet.

But I remember enough to know—

It hurt.

It still hurts.

^^^^^

The light slips into the room like a thief—reluctant, filtering through the heavy curtains. My eyes crack open, swollen from crying. My body aches, stiff and weak from spending hours on the floor. My skin feels cold and tight against my bones.

I move slowly, pulling myself up with both hands braced against the nightstand. My joints protest, my legs trembling slightly beneath me. The ache in my ribs is dull but constant, a steady pulse of pain as I stand upright. I breathe through my nose, forcing my muscles to obey.

The bathroom feels too far, but I cross the room anyway, the chill of the floor crawling up my bare feet.

I strip off my clothes carefully. The oversized T-shirt peels away from my damp skin, sticking to my back before I finally pull it over my head and toss it onto the floor. My shorts follow, pooling around my ankles. I catch my reflection in the mirror and freeze for a moment.

The tattoo on my inner wrist stares back at me—a rose coiled around a dagger, the ink dark and sharp against my pale skin. The crescent birthmark on my shoulder remains where it always has, familiar and foreign all at once.

My fingertips trace the half-healed scars along my ribs and hips. Thin lines, barely raised, but visible reminders of battles I can’t fully recall. The ache inside my head sharpens again. My lips press into a thin line.

I step into the bath, twisting the handle. Water fills the tub, steaming gently. The moment I lower myself in, the heat wraps around my body like a blanket, and I sink deeper, letting it swallow me. My hair floats like ribbons on the surface as I rest my head against the cool porcelain edge.

Numb.

That’s the only word for it.

I wash slowly, my hands running over my own skin like a stranger’s. There’s no comfort in it. No softness. Just mechanical motion. Soap gliding over skin. Fingers through hair. My mind floats somewhere between present and past, not quite anchored to either.

When I’m done, I dry myself, tugging the towel around me, and return to the room. The dress I pick is simple—black, soft fabric hugging my body, sleeves long and modest. I comb through my damp hair, each stroke rhythmic, calming. The pull of the brush through the tangles keeps me grounded.

A knock on the door.

It opens before I answer. One of the guards steps inside, stiff, his voice neutral. “Mrs. Accardi, he wants you.”

I don’t reply. My body moves before my mind does. I place the brush down, smooth my dress, and follow him silently into the hallway. The mansion is still quiet, but heavy with a strange tension that hums beneath the surface like an electric current.

At the end of the hallway, Cassian waits. There’s a fresh graze on his cheek, the skin scraped raw. His lip is slightly swollen. His eyes flick to mine for a second before dismissing the guard with a wave. I say nothing.

Cassian turns and starts walking. I trail behind him, my footsteps light, my heart growing heavier with each turn of the corridor.

The path we take is unfamiliar—narrower hallways, colder air, dimmer lights. We descend a flight of stairs, stone replacing marble, the walls closing in tighter.

The dungeon.

The heavy door creaks as Cassian pushes it open, revealing the space inside. My breath catches.

Monte and Gustavo hang from metal restraints, their bodies a canvas of bruises and blood.

Naked, exposed, trembling. Their faces are swollen beyond recognition—lips split, eyes puffed, blood smeared and fresh.

Their groans fill the thick air, punctuated by the metallic drip of blood hitting the floor.

And then there’s Serevin.

He stands a few feet from them, cigarette burning between his fingers, blood staining the cuffs of his shirt and splattered across his knuckles. The smoke coils lazily around him as he exhales. His eyes meet mine for a moment—calm, cold, unreadable.

The smell of iron and sweat makes my stomach tighten.

I don’t speak.

He doesn’t speak.

I simply stand there, frozen in place, my heart hammering beneath my ribs as my gaze shifts between the broken bodies of Monte and Gustavo and the man who put them there.

Serevin flicks ash from his cigarette, his expression completely still.

I stare at the whip in his hand.

The leather coil glistens under the dungeon light, the handle polished, the edge stained darker. His voice is steady but low as he steps closer, offering it to me.

“They hurt you,” he says. “Hurt them twice as much.”

The two broken men groan, barely able to lift their heads, but I feel their eyes on me. Blood-streaked, trembling, their bodies slump like discarded rags. Monte’s lip splits open again when he tries to speak. Gustavo wheezes, his chest rising in uneven gasps.

I swallow, my fingers curling into fists at my side. The weight of the room presses against my skin like invisible hands. My stomach twists.

I don’t move to take the whip. I look at Serevin instead.

“This is unnecessary.” My voice is steady, firm, but something inside me quivers. “I’ll be returning to my room.”

I turn my back on him before he can answer, before his darkness infects me any more than it already has. My heels echo against the cold stone as I make my way out. My breathing is tight, controlled. Behind me, I hear nothing—no protest, no persuasion, only the sound of my own retreat.

But I don’t get far.

By the time I reach the corridor above, I feel his presence again, close. The moment I step into the office, his hand grabs mine—not rough, not painful, but firm enough to stop me. I freeze, but don’t turn to him.

“They hurt you,” he says again, softer this time.

I glance over my shoulder, forcing a small smile that tastes like poison in my mouth. “Not more than you’ve hurt me, Serevin.”

My words cut through the room, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see it—the flicker of real shock behind his cold stare. The certainty falters in his eyes.

“You…you remember?” His voice breaks just slightly at the end. The tiniest fracture. The one thing I wasn’t expecting to find in him: fear.

That surprises me more than anything.

I tilt my head, my voice light. “No, I don’t. It’s just a feeling.”

It’s a lie. Or at least, not entirely true. The memories are scattered inside me, surfacing in painful flashes, fragments of a storm I can’t yet hold together. But he doesn’t need to know that.

I try to pull my hand away, but his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to trap me there. His body towers closer. His breath is warm on my cheek.

“You’re mine, Fioretta.” His voice lowers into a dangerous whisper. “No one else can touch you.”

I inhale slowly, holding back the shiver crawling under my skin. I don’t let him see it.