Morning slipped through the tall windows at Valterra, gold and silver slicing across the marble floor. For all that light, the place felt colder than ever.
Elara woke with last night's discoveries still sour in her mouth. The forbidden room. The files. That ledger, tracking every piece of her life, cataloged and judged. She shivered, not from the chill, but from realizing the man who claimed her probably knew her better than she knew herself.
She pushed herself out of bed. The black dress Alessio picked out hung in the wardrobe, neat and silent. She wanted to rip it apart. Still, she knew she'd wear it tomorrow. No choice. Each bit of silk, every careful fold, just reminded her she wasn't free. And, weirdly, that same power had its own pull.
Breakfast passed in icy silence. Alessio didn't say a word. He didn't have to. Just being there, sitting at the table, was enough to fill the whole room with tension. She tried not to flinch when he looked at her, tried not to let his eyes make her tremble. She failed. And she hated herself for it.
Now, hours later, she wandered the gardens. Yesterday's rain left everything gleaming and slick. Hedges trimmed into submission, but the wind still bent the trees, wild and stubborn, like the land itself wanted to remind her that nature couldn't really be tamed—not with walls, not with guards.
She stopped at a fountain. Water spilled over marble, a soft, endless song. She pressed her palm to the cold stone and closed her eyes. For once, she let herself feel it all—anger, fear, longing, and, most dangerous of all, curiosity.
The air shifted—subtle, but real. Someone was coming. She opened her eyes, not looking straight at him but knowing.
"Do you ever rest, Elara?"
His voice slid through the morning, low and smooth, with a sharp edge. She turned. Alessio stood a few steps away, dark coat brushing the light, silver eyes locked on her. This time, though, there was something different—a flicker of vulnerability, or maybe fascination. It was gone before she could pin it down.
"I rest when I can," she said, careful. "Why?"
He closed the space between them, slow and deliberate, boots whispering on wet stone. "Because I can't ignore you. Not yet."
Her stomach tightened. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but something deeper—something that had survived being sold, being caged, being underestimated—held her steady. That wild curiosity wouldn't let her move.
"Why me?" Her voice was barely there. "I'm a Moretti. My blood's enemy blood. I'm supposed to be beneath you, not…" She trailed off. The words wouldn't come.
He watched her, jaw tight, mouth a hard line. When he spoke, every word landed heavy.
"You're not beneath me," he said. "You're different. You're not like the others who came through these halls. You don't bend easy. And…" He let it hang. "…there's something about you that calls to me. Something dangerous. Untamed."
Elara's breath caught. She wanted to hate him, to tell him his words meant nothing, that he couldn't touch her mind, her heart, her body. But she didn't. She couldn't. The pull between them—sharp, electric—was everywhere.
"You should leave," she whispered, voice tight. "I'm not safe. And you aren't either, if you stay."
A dangerous smile flickered across his lips. "Safe's a story we tell ourselves, Elara. Neither of us has seen it in years. And still…" He moved closer, enough that she felt his heat. "…I'm drawn to you. I can't help it."
Her heart thudded, loud in the empty garden. She'd never felt so exposed, so alive. Every part of her buzzed, the world sharpened around this moment.
"Drawn to me?" she echoed, half-disbelieving, half-wary. "I'm nobody. Just a girl sold like a thing. Don't waste your… whatever this is."
He laughed, but it sounded rough, almost like a growl. He studied her face, memorizing the stubborn set of her jaw, the flash in her eyes. "Waste?" His voice dropped lower. "You don't get it. This isn't waste. This tension—it's the first spark. I want to see how far it burns."
Heat curled in her belly—fear, defiance, and something far more dangerous. She stepped back. He followed, matching her, every move precise.
"You have no idea what you're tempting," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I do not forgive easily. I do not love lightly. And I… do not lose."."
Her pulse hammered in her ears. She should run. Scream. Hit back—do anything to stay in control.
But her body turned traitor.
Some wild, scared part of her wanted to fall into this man, to see if the fire in his eyes would really burn. Alessio's gaze softened, just barely. He held out his hand—not to touch her, not yet, but to offer a choice.
"Do you understand, Elara?" he said quietly. "If you take this step with me, there's no going back. No middle ground. It's just us, right here."
Her hands shook. Her chest tightened. And just then, something clicked inside her. She didn't want to run.
Not from him. Not from the danger, either. Not from the spark that had jumped to life—shaky, new, but real—between two people tied together by violence, blood, and obsession.
Elara drew in a breath, slow and careful. "Then let's see where this spark goes," she said, her voice unsteady—but not from fear. It was the rush, the risk, that made her shake.
Alessio's mouth twisted into a sharp, satisfied smile. "Good," he said, voice low. "Sparks catch. Fire spreads."
Outside, the storm let loose—rain battering the windows, thunder crashing so loud it felt like war. And right there, with the world exploding around them, that forbidden, dangerous spark caught between them.
Neither one tried to put it out.
Because denying it now would mean denying themselves—and the wild pull of the storm that already owned them.