69

69


The war was about to ignite and I had a front-row seat to the carnage.

Officially, I still wore the title of Gosto’s fiancée. And if he ascended the throne, I would, by default, be crowned ruler alongside him. It sounded foolish, but the brief thrill I felt when he referred to me as his Queen it stirred something in me. That fleeting moment of elation vanished just as quickly, replaced by the sharp sting of reality. I could never truly be his Queen. Because he would never be mine. The moment his body touched that cursed throne, our entire pretense would dissolve.

Gosto, Fosco, Ermes even Diamante held unwavering faith in our plan. The Santini family’s army had been trained to near-perfection, fully capable of toppling the forces still loyal to King Gualtiero Pirozzi. I was sure of it. I had watched Gosto and Fosco prepare for this day with meticulous precision, fine-tuning every angle and possibility over years of planning. So why did I feel like I couldn’t breathe? My nerves weren’t just buzzing they were howling.

The next twenty hours passed like fog. I couldn’t remember whether I had managed any sleep. Morning arrived, blurry and weightless except for one sharp moment: Diamante stepping into my room with a floor-length gown of midnight silk, my attire for King Gualtiero’s final masquerade. My body was taut with tension, every breath like a half-lungful of air. As the day dragged on, the dizziness intensified, and I started to wonder if I still needed silver poisoning when my own anxiety was lethal enough.

I curled my hair slightly, pinning a few strands up, and kept my makeup minimal just a shimmer on my lids, black mascara to frame my eyes, and wine-red lips. Then I slipped into the gown.

It hugged me like it was made from my own shadow, accentuating every curve with maddening precision. The neckline plunged dangerously, revealing the rise of my cleavage, but I didn’t flinch. Modesty no longer scared me. The woman staring back at me in the mirror exuded a fierce, seductive power. I almost admired her. But this night this cursed ball would be her final performance.

Exhaling unsteadily, I reached behind to zip myself up, but my trembling fingers made a mess of it. Frustrated, I clenched my hands and tried again.

A knock at the door snapped my attention.

“Come in!” I called distractedly, still wrestling with the zipper.

“I can help with that,” came Gosto’s voice deep, smooth, and dangerously close. I swallowed hard and nodded, eyes lifting to meet his reflection in the mirror as he approached.

He stepped behind me, his hands brushing lightly across the fabric just below the curve of my back. I saw his Adam’s apple shift as he swallowed.

My breath quickened. He bent lower, his fingers grazing the exposed skin near the zipper.

“What are you doing?” I asked, breath catching.

“Helping,” he murmured against my spine, then pressed a soft kiss to it.

A gasp slipped out. I should have pulled away but I didn’t. I couldn’t. His hands trailed upward, gliding the zipper closed. Another kiss followed, higher this time. A third kiss stole the air from my lungs, and his quiet, amused breath warmed my skin. A final kiss sent a shiver spiraling down my spine and up again like an electric current.

“You’re not playing fair,” I whispered, turning to face him.

He didn’t give me time to speak. His lips crashed into mine, arms wrapping around me, yanking me into his heat. I gripped the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as he devoured me with a hunger I thought I had buried. For one intoxicating moment, the ache inside me was smothered by desire.

Then came Diamante’s voice, slicing through the haze.

“Domitilla, are you ready?”

I tore myself away, clearing my throat.

“Yes... I’ll be right out,” I called, eyes reluctantly finding Gosto’s.

A smug curve danced at the edge of his mouth. I knew that look he was enjoying this.

I clenched my hands, ready to speak, but he kissed my forehead instead.

“I’ll wait for you in the office,” he said, voice low. His gaze met mine. “You look beautiful.” And just like that, he disappeared through the door, leaving my mind in tatters.

It took over ten minutes to recover. To reapply lipstick. To find my feet.

But the moment I stepped into the office, all traces of arousal vanished. Silver-filled syringes sat on the desk like executioners waiting.

Only Gosto and Ermes were present. Gosto looked paler than I’d ever seen him, his jaw tight with pain. His suit jacket was gone, one sleeve rolled up. Three used syringes lay nearby he’d already gone through the ordeal.

I swallowed thickly.

“Sit down, Domitilla,” Ermes instructed, nodding toward a chair bolted with steel restraints.

I obeyed, and he locked my arms into the cuffs. He picked up the first syringe, the needle gleaming in the dim light.

“Are you ready?”

No. Not even close. I remembered him warning me it would feel like hellfire. I squeezed my eyes shut, hunting for courage I didn’t possess.

“Domitilla, look at me.”

Gosto knelt in front of me, his hand finding mine, a gentle squeeze grounding me.

“Hold on to me. As tight as you need. I’ll get you through this. Just don’t look away.”

I nodded, inhaled deeply and the needle pierced. The burn was instant, searing. It felt like my veins had turned to molten metal. I screamed. I couldn’t stop it.

“I can’t” I rasped.

“You will survive this. You’re stronger than this,” Gosto’s voice cut through the agony.

Relief came only when the first injection ended. But before I could breathe, the second syringe came.

I clutched Gosto’s hand, dug my nails in. A ragged growl broke from me.

The third injection was the worst pure, unfiltered torment. “I’m sorry,” Gosto whispered, kissing my sweat-damp forehead. Somehow, it helped. It cooled the fire, if only slightly. My eyes fluttered open, tears streaking down.

“We’re done,” Ermes said distantly.

Gosto kissed my cheeks, wiped away the tears.

“It’s over, Domitilla,” he whispered. “You made it. I knew you would, my Queen.”

His words made my lips twitch in a fragile smile. My eyes drifted shut.

Was I hallucinating... or had he really called me his Queen?

I blacked out for fifteen minutes. When I came to, I was lying on a sofa, my head resting in Gosto’s lap. He stroked my hair softly, and for a moment, I considered pretending to still be asleep just to prolong the comfort.

“I wouldn’t mind you sleeping here all night,” he said, his tone playful. “But we’ve got a ball to attend.”

I groaned. My heartbeat must’ve given me away.

Opening my eyes, I met his pale face. “How do you feel?”

He shrugged. “You get used to it,” he replied, but I knew it was a lie. That pain wasn’t something anyone could ever get used to.

Without thinking, I reached up and brushed my fingers across his cheek.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “For everything.”

He caught my hand and kissed it.

“Don’t thank me,” he said quietly. “I don’t deserve it.”

I pushed myself upright and looked him in the eye. “Don’t say that.”

Then I glanced down at his hand marked with my nail impressions. I reached to touch it, but he withdrew.

“This” I gestured at the wounds “this proves you deserve a thank you. At the very least.”

He exhaled sharply, almost like a laugh. “You really are an angel. So innocent. So sweetly naïve.”

Mockery colored his voice, but his eyes... they told a different story.

Then he smirked.

“Don’t forget,” he said as he stood and walked toward the door, “I’m the Devil’s descendant.”

He left the office without another word.

And I... I stood there, staring at the door he’d just closed.

He might have been the Devil’s own but he was already the Devil I had fallen for.