70

70


Thirty minutes later, we were gliding through the dusky streets in a sleek limousine, en route to the castle. Gosto sat upright beside me, his eyes flicking cautiously across the darkened windows, scanning the world outside with a soldier’s vigilance.

"Are you expecting trouble?" I asked, trying to mask the tremor in my voice with a wry smile.

"You can never be too careful," he replied calmly, and a chill raced down my spine.

Something about the air felt wrong off. My instincts screamed that a shadow was creeping closer, no matter how many times I told myself that everything surrounding Pirozzi’s castle carried its own ominous weight. The sense of dread refused to fade. I didn’t tell Gosto about the persistent unease gnawing at me. How could I, when even I didn’t know what it meant? One of us needed to stay grounded, and clearly, that person wasn’t going to be me.

As we rode on, I focused on steadying my breath, reigning in the anxiety clawing at my chest. But no amount of controlled breathing eased the coiling tension in my body.

Then Gosto’s hand found mine, his fingers weaving gently between mine.

“Breathe, Domitilla,” he murmured. “We may not be at full strength tonight, but we’re far from unprotected. I’ve stationed fifty warriors in the woods outside the castle. If anything happens, they’ll strike.”

I nodded, the knowledge offering a thin thread of comfort. Not much, but enough. Gosto gave my hand a reassuring squeeze, and the moment our skin touched, my stomach fluttered traitorously. I knew I should have hardened myself against him should have remembered every wound he’d dealt me but despite it all, loving him still felt... right.

The car pulled up to the gates of the castle. Gosto stepped out first and offered his hand to me. His grip was firm, protective, as we made our way toward the grand entrance. I bit down on my lip as I glanced sideways at him his perfectly styled hair, the sharp lines of his face, the broad shoulders straining against a tailored tux. I wanted him. God help me, I still wanted him. And knowing he wanted me too only made it harder to resist.

The guards outside met me with cold, assessing stares. Once, their scrutiny would have made me recoil. But now? Now I found solace in their ignorance. They couldn’t sense the storm hidden beneath my skin and that was my greatest advantage.

Inside, Gosto pressed a kiss to my forehead, his lips soft and warm.

“You’re doing great, Domitilla,” he whispered. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

His voice calmed something inside me. I drew in a steadying breath, nodded, and said, “Let’s greet the King,” tugging gently on his hand.

The ballroom loomed ahead, opulent and blinding in its excess. As we stepped inside, eyes turned to us. The other vampires stared, surprise flickering in their expressions when I met their gazes head-on. I wasn’t the same frightened girl they’d once seen. I had power now maybe not at its full strength with silver in my veins but enough to recognize the threats from the posturers. Most of them posed no danger.

For the first time, I truly understood why Gosto and I needed silver to mask what we were.

Even dulled, the power radiating from him was unmistakable.

“Look who finally decided to show up.” A voice I’d prayed to avoid slithered toward us.

Anselmo strolled over, champagne glass in hand and arrogance pouring from every step. “Welcome, Lord and future Lady Santini,” he said with a theatrical bow and an insufferable smirk.

Gosto smiled, but it was a brittle thing, his eyes cold as steel.

“Always a pleasure, Prince.”

The warning in his tone was clear, but Anselmo ignored it. His gaze raked over me, slow and lecherous.

“Your fiancée looks even more fuckable than before,” he said, chuckling into his glass.

Gosto’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. I, on the other hand, wasn’t quite so restrained.

“Is that bitterness I hear, Anselmo?” I said sweetly. “Maybe your father should find you a willing fiancée someone who actually wants to fuck you. It might keep you away from women you’ll never have.”

His eyes darkened, turning crimson, and his grin twisted into a snarl. “You fucking bitch”

His hand lifted, but before he could strike, Gosto had already moved. He caught Anselmo’s wrist mid-air, his grip merciless.

“Careful, Prince,” Gosto said, voice low and lethal. “Touch her, and I’ll tear you apart before anyone realizes you’re dying.”

Anselmo growled but yanked his hand free, stepping back. “You’re lucky I don’t want to ruin my father’s ball.”

He stormed off, vanishing into the crowd.

Relieved, I turned to Gosto, a grin breaking across my face just before he pulled me into his arms.

“Have I ever told you how amazing you are?” he whispered, brushing his lips against my ear.

Heat flushed across my cheeks, but before I could respond, the sharp blare of trumpets cut through the noise. The King had arrived.

Gualtiero stepped out onto a gold-draped balcony, surrounded by blood-red blooms. His gaze found ours almost instantly, and a knowing smile touched his lips. I strengthened my senses, reaching out to touch his aura. It was potent, not unlike Gosto’s, though slightly less overwhelming even weakened as he was.

“Welcome, dear guests,” the King proclaimed, arms spread wide like some god basking in worship. His speech quickly devolved into self-glorification.

I turned my head, catching the fire in Gosto’s eyes. I hated Gualtiero and Anselmo with every part of me, but whatever loathing I harbored was nothing compared to Gosto’s. I squeezed his hand, whispering my support just as a cold wind kissed the back of my neck.

I froze. The air had changed.

“Gosto,” I said, barely breathing. “Something’s coming.”

Even as the words left me, a bloodcurdling scream tore through the ballroom and then, darkness. The lights went out. Panic erupted around us.

Gosto’s arm clamped around my waist. “Stay close.”

I couldn’t even answer. The crowd surged, someone slammed into us, and we fell. “Domitilla!” Gosto’s voice sounded miles away. I scrambled up, disoriented, jostled by bodies crashing past.

“All exits are blocked!” someone shouted.

The air thickened with terror screams, growls, the scent of blood. It was chaos.

Then hands. Strong, unrelenting, they pinned me against a wall.

“I’ve been waiting,” a low voice rasped.

The man radiated power. His fingers caressed my cheek like a lover. “My Nephilim has awakened.”

I felt his breath on my throat, his teeth grazing my skin. I fought. Screamed. His grip loosened and I shoved him with everything I had.

I stumbled blindly into the melee, praying for escape.

A hand seized mine.

“Domitilla, I’ve got you!” Gosto’s voice cut through my panic like light through fog. “Hold on.”

“Can you see anything?”

“Enough,” he said, guiding me through a hidden passage, his grip never faltering.

We twisted through darkness, then he pushed open a low, rusted door. We stepped into the woods under moonlight. I exhaled, relief crashing over me like a wave.

Fosco stood waiting, battle-ready, surrounded by warriors.

“Glad you made it,” he said grimly.

“So are we,” Gosto replied, cold and sharp. “Gualtiero must’ve forgotten about the old tunnels.”

“We arrived late. Whoever they were they were gone. It was surgical.”

“What the hell happened in there?!” I shouted, my voice cracking.

Fosco’s expression darkened. “An assassination.”

My breath hitched. “A... what?”

“We’ll have to change tomorrow’s plans,” he muttered.

Gosto turned to me, gently brushing something from my cheek. Blood.

“Domitilla,” he said quietly, “Gualtiero. Anselmo. Half the guests… They’re dead. And we don’t know who did it.”