Page 21 of Crown Of Blood

I reach out, brushing a fingertip against her temple again. Her breath hitches, but she doesn't move.

Then I turn away—slow, deliberate—and walk straight up to the man closest to the door.

He stiffens when I stop in front of him.

"I want the names," I say softly, calmly. "Of the men who put their hands on what's mine."

Then I walk past him, the sound of my footsteps echoing through the penthouse, fury rising with every one.

Sofia's hand is small in mine as I walk her back toward the kitchen.

The room still hums behind me—quiet voices, fear, the sound of a heart that doesn't belong to mine still echoing in my head.

She looks up at me, sleepy-eyed, curls wild. "You're mad, Papà."

I stop, crouching in front of her. "Why do you think that?"

"Your face." She presses her little palm to my cheek. "You do the jaw thing when you're mad."

I exhale, forcing the tension to break just a little. "You notice everything, Principessa."

"I notice you." She smiles, then looks over her shoulder toward the other room. "Is Bella staying with us?"

The question hits me harder than it should.

I don't know the answer. Not yet.

"Maybe for a little while," I say quietly.

"She's nice," Sofia says, filling a cup of water from the fridge. "Even though she's hurt."

I swallow hard. "Yeah. She's… strong."

"Like you?"

I shake my head. “No, Principessa. Stronger."

She beams at that, like it's the right kind of story to hear before bed.

I retake her hand and walk her back down the hall, the one with the family portraits she doesn't remember posing for—her mother's face frozen in time beside mine. Sofia stops at that picture like she always does.

"Do you think Momma would like Bella?"

The question rips something straight out of my chest.

I manage a steady tone. "Your momma liked anyone who made me less of a nightmare."

She giggles. "Then she'd like her lots."

I tuck her into bed, smoothing the blanket up to her chin. "Go to sleep, Principessa."

"'Kay," she whispers, half-dreaming already.

When I turn off her lamp, the faint glow of the nightlight softens everything—the stuffed rabbit, her slow, steady breathing, the piece of my soul I have left.

And then, just as quietly, I close her door and walk back into the storm.

The penthouse is dark except for the city bleeding in through the windows. The men are gone. Good.