Page 34 of Fire and Silk

“Swear,” I whisper, hands tightening on his shirt like a lifeline. “Swear you won’t.”

His eyes search mine. So blue. So open.

“I swear.”

He cups the back of my head and draws me in again. He doesn’t let go.

Chapter Six - Severo

Severo’s Private Quarters – Northern Wing, Dantès Estate

I can’t stop grinning.

The ache across the bridge of my nose pulses with every heartbeat— deep, satisfying. My fingers trace along the swelling curve, the warmth of dried blood crusting at the nostrils. The guards offered to call a medic. I waved them off. Let it sit. Let it throb. Let it remind me.

She headbutted me.

She fucking headbutted me.

I pace the length of my room barefoot, blood-streaked shirt discarded across the back of a leather chair. The dim overhead lights cast long, jagged shadows across the marble floor. I catch my reflection in the tall mirror near the armoire—shirtless, half-smeared in her fight, and smiling like I just won the lottery.

Because I have.

She’s... exquisite. That’s the word. Not beautiful in the bland, glossy way most women who throw themselves at me tend to be. No. She’sunrefined. Tension in her spine. Anger in her mouth. Fear and fire braided into the shape of a girl used to being left and stubborn to break cleanly.

And those eyes.

I saw them go wide when I entered, panic blooming behind them like a detonation. But she didn’t cower. Noflailing. No desperate begging. She stood. Chin up. Lips parted, trembling with words she hadn’t decided whether to speak or scream.

God, I wanted to touch her right then. Not for comfort. Just to see what she’d do.

She’s smaller than I imagined. Fragile-looking, even. But the way she moved—fast, volatile—like something cornered but not ready to die yet. That’s the best kind.

I’ve seen all the others. Maksim, for all his muscle, is predictable. Mina is careful. They want power because it was promised to them. They chase the inheritance like moths around a flame. All greed, no grace.

But this girl?

She doesn’t even know what she’s sitting on. She’s not chasing anything. Sheisthe prize. And that’s what makes her dangerous.

I exhale through my nose and wince. The sharp jolt runs deep into the bone. My grin widens.

There’s something not quite right about her. Something broken—but sharp. Like a shattered violin string, still capable of drawing blood. And beneath all that panic and exhaustion and pretty little trembles...

There’sfight.

When my father died, I didn’t mourn him. Not really. I poured a glass of Ardbeg and booked my return flight to Italy. My mind was already in Rome, walking the cobbled streets, blending into crowds that didn’t know or care who I was. I had plans—simple ones. Wake up late. Drink espresso. Fuck who I wanted. Forget what the Dantès name had ever meant.

Maksim was the heir. Everyone knew that. The golden son. He ran my father’s ports, collected debts, and managed soldiers. I was the second son, born to the second wife, and I’d spent most of my life dodging my father’s ambitions. He tried to bring me in. Showed me the family tree carved with blood and tradition. I’d watched his hands shake while signing treaties with men who would just as soon slit his throat. I saw his sleepless nights, his paranoia, the constant war beneath the surface of everything he touched.

I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to become a man like him.

And I wouldn’t have.

Until that night. Two days after my father’s death.

It was late. Nearly four in the morning. I remember because I’d just silenced my alarm. I hadn’t slept long—jet lag had coiled around my spine like a fist—and I’d been tossing in bed shirtless, the covers tangled around my legs. The estate was unusually still. No patrols under my window. No humming from the hallway security grid. I noted the calm, but I didn’t rise.

I wish I had.