Chapter 7: His Blood, My Vow

The world narrowed to the dead weight of him. Matteo’s blood, hot and slick, soaked through my dress, a terrible warmth against my skin. Above, Luca’s enraged roar was a physical force, vibrating through the stone floor. I couldn’t lift Matteo. I couldn’t fight. I could only hold him, my hands pressing uselessly against the wound in his shoulder.

“Matteo, no, no, no,” I chanted, a frantic prayer to a God I wasn’t sure was listening. His face was ashen, his lips a bloodless line. The man who had just promised to trade his life for mine was dying in my arms.

A crash from the stairwell jolted me. A side door—an old servant’s entrance—stood ajar, spilling moonlight onto the floor. It was our only chance.

Desperation gave me a strength I didn’t know I possessed. I hooked my arms under his, my muscles screaming in protest as I dragged him across the floor. His boots scraped against the stone, a sound I was sure Luca would hear. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. With a final, agonizing heave, I pulled him through the door and into the cold night air, kicking it shut behind us.

The garden was a labyrinth of shadows and towering hedges. I half-carried, half-dragged Matteo through the wet grass, my breath coming in ragged sobs. The salty tang of the sea was stronger here, a stark contrast to the metallic scent of blood that clung to us both. A small, weathered boathouse stood near the water’s edge.

It was our sanctuary.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of salt and old wood. I eased Matteo onto a pile of canvas sails, my arms trembling with exhaustion. The only light came from the moon, filtering through a grimy window, illuminating the harsh planes of his face. He was so pale.

My hands, stained crimson, fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. The wound was a jagged, ugly tear in the muscle of his shoulder. The bullet was still in there. I had to stop the bleeding. Tearing a strip from the hem of my silk dress, I folded it into a thick pad and pressed it firmly against the injury.

He groaned, his eyelids fluttering. “Aria?”

“I’m here,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”

His eyes, those dark, penetrating eyes that had haunted my every waking thought, finally focused on me. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “You… you should have run.”

“You’re a fool, Matteo Moretti,” I choked out, tears finally spilling over. “A complete and utter fool.”

“For you,” he breathed, his voice a low rasp. “I’d be a fool for you every day of my life.”

Something inside me, a wall I had so carefully constructed of duty and loyalty and fear, crumbled into dust. He had taken a bullet for me. He had been willing to die for me. And I had led his enemy right to his door.

The guilt was a physical weight, crushing my chest. I was the traitor. I was the reason he was lying here, bleeding out on a pile of dirty canvas.

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed, the words tearing from my throat. “Matteo, I’m so sorry.”

His good hand, slick with blood, came up to cup my cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle. “Don’t,” he commanded, his voice gaining a sliver of its usual steel. “Don’t you dare apologize. Not for him. Not for anything.”

His thumb stroked my cheekbone, wiping away a tear. The simple, intimate gesture sent a jolt through me, a spark in the midst of the chaos. The air in the boathouse grew thick, charged with a desperate, frantic energy. We were both trembling, but for different reasons. Him, from blood loss and pain. Me, from a terrifying, consuming need.

I leaned into his touch, my eyes locked on his. The fear, the guilt, the betrayal—it all melted away, leaving only this raw, aching hunger. I wanted to feel something other than terror. I wanted to feel him. Alive.

I didn’t think. I just moved.

I pressed my lips to his.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a collision. A desperate, frantic melding of mouths born from the brink of death. He tasted of blood and salt and something uniquely, devastatingly him. A choked sound rumbled in his chest, and his hand tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss. His other arm, the uninjured one, wrapped around my waist, crushing me to him despite the groan of pain the movement cost him.

The world outside—Luca, the mafia, my father’s debts, my own treacherous heart—ceased to exist. There was only the rough canvas beneath us, the scent of the sea, and the frantic beat of his heart against mine.

His hands grew bolder, roaming my back, my hips, leaving trails of fire in their wake. My own fingers explored the hard planes of his chest, the corded muscles of his stomach, careful to avoid the wound. Every touch was a confession. Every gasp was a surrender.

“Aria,” he whispered against my throat, my name a prayer on his lips.

“Don’t stop,” I pleaded, my voice a breathless whisper. “Please, Matteo. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He shifted, rolling me beneath him, his weight a welcome cage. His mouth found mine again, more demanding this time, a claim. My dress was a ruined, blood-stained barrier. With an impatient tug, the delicate fabric tore, baring my shoulder to his hungry gaze. His lips traced a searing path down my neck, across my collarbone, setting my skin ablaze.

I arched into him, a moan escaping my lips as his hand found the zipper of my dress. The sound was lost in the whisper of the silk pooling at my waist. We were a tangle of limbs and desperation, our movements frantic, our breaths ragged. The pain of his wound was forgotten, eclipsed by a far more powerful need. It was a desperate act of claiming, a frantic search for life in the face of death. He branded me with his touch, his taste, his very essence, until I was mindless with a pleasure that bordered on pain.

When it was over, we lay tangled together on the rough canvas, the chill of the night seeping into our heated skin. The frantic pace of our hearts slowly began to calm, replaced by a heavy, poignant silence. I could feel the sticky warmth of his blood against my leg, a stark reminder of the reality we had briefly escaped.

I traced the line of a scar on his chest, my fingers light. He was asleep, his breathing finally even and deep, his face relaxed for the first time since I’d known him. He looked younger, less like a ruthless king and more like the man who had risked everything for me.

And that was the problem.

The intoxicating fog of passion lifted, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity. What had I done? I had just given my body and my soul to the man I was sent to destroy. I had lain with the enemy. My father was in a dungeon because of this man’s family. My entire life, my loyalty, belonged to another.

But as I looked at Matteo’s sleeping face, I didn’t feel like a traitor. I felt like a woman who had just found her home in the arms of a man she was supposed to hate. The love that bloomed in my chest was a wild, untamable thing, a beautiful poison. It was a love that could get us both killed.

A sound cut through the silence. Not the wind. Not the gentle lap of water against the dock.

Footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, and close. They crunched on the gravel path just outside the boathouse.

Matteo’s eyes flew open, instantly alert, his hand already reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. We both stared at the door, our bodies frozen.

The heavy wooden door swung open with a low, creaking groan, framing a silhouette against the moonlight.

It wasn’t Luca.

It was a man I had never seen before, tall and lean, with a cruel smile and eyes as cold as a winter sea. He looked from me, half-naked and disheveled, to Matteo, wounded and defenseless. His smile widened.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice dripping with malice. “Isn’t this a pretty picture. Hello, little bride. I’ve been looking for you.”