And then he sinks to one knee.
The sight is so unexpected, so absurd given everything that's just transpired, that I almost laugh. He's mocking me. He must be. Playing at romance while holding an invisible knife to my throat.
But his eyes... his eyes don't look like mockery. They burn with something that looks like hunger. Like hope. Like a man laying a bet he's not sure he'll win.
"Ilona Marchetti." His voice is rough, stripped of its earlier smoothness. "Will you marry me?"
I stare at the ring. At him. At the impossible situation I've found myself in.
I could say no. Could slap him again, storm out, take my chances with my father's wrath. But where would that leave me? Pregnant, alone, hunted by a man who sees me as property to be traded which places my baby in danger. I can’t have that.
Luca Valentina is a devil. But right now, he's offering me a deal with terms I might survive.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a plan begins to form. Take the ring. Play the game. Find a way out that doesn't destroy me or my baby.
I reach for the ring.
The metal is cool against my fingers as I slide it on, the band settling against my skin like a shackle made of white gold. The diamond catches the light, fracturing it into a thousand tiny rainbows. The rubies glow like drops of blood around a frozen heart.
It fits perfectly. Of course it does.
I meet his eyes and let him see the steel beneath my surrender. Let him think he's won.
"Deal." The word tastes like ash and determination. "But I have conditions of my own."
Seven
Luca
The ring fits perfectly.
Of course it does. I had it custom made in two days, the jeweler working around the clock because I paid him enough to make sleep irrelevant. The diamond catches the October light streaming through my office windows, fracturing it into a thousand tiny prisms. The rubies catch the light like embers, the exact shade I specified to the jeweler. The same crimson as the viper's eyes that wind up my arm. I wanted her to wear my mark before she ever took my name.
I watch her slide it onto her finger. Perfect fit. Every measurement pulled from the surveillance photos still sitting in my files. I know the circumference of her ring finger the same way I know the rhythm of her breathing when she sleeps.
Obsession doesn't begin to cover what I feel for this woman.
"Deal." Her voice is steady. In fact, it’s too steady. The word should shake or carry a little bit of a waver. I’ve just forced her into a corner and she’s not showing any signs of the weight I’ve placed onto her shoulders. That single syllable lands between uslike a chess piece moved with precision. She meets my eyes and lets me see the steel beneath the surrender, and I realize with a jolt of admiration that she thinks she's the one playing me.
And then she hits me with a right hook. "But I have conditions of my own."
I rise from my knee, smoothing down the front of my shirt, and allow myself one moment to simply look at her. Ilona Marchetti. Pregnant with my child. Wearing my ring. Standing in my office with fury blazing in those stunning eyes, her chin lifted like she's preparing for battle rather than negotiation.
The morning light catches the blue tips of her hair, the ones she tried so hard to hide in that severe French twist. A few strands have escaped during our confrontation, framing her face in streaks of midnight and sapphire. Her borrowed blouse has come slightly untucked on one side, and there's a faint tremor in her hands that she's trying desperately to hide.
She's exhausted. Terrified. Furious.
I don't need to be a mind reader to see it. The evidence is written across her body in a language I've learned to read fluently. The shadows bruising the delicate skin beneath her eyes, purple smudged against olive. The way her chest rises and falls just a fraction too fast, each breath a controlled effort. The white-knuckle grip she keeps on her composure, visible in the tension lining her jaw, the tendons standing out in her neck. The slight tremor in her fingers she thinks I haven't noticed.
Her entire body broadcasts her truth when her words don't.
And still she’s the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"I'm listening." I settle against the edge of my desk, arms crossed over my chest, and wait. Patient. I can afford to be patient now. The ring is on her finger. The trap has closed. Everything else is just details.
Her hands curl into fists at her sides, but her voice comes out steady. Practiced. She's been thinking about this, formulating her demands in the minutes since she slid that band onto her finger. I can almost see the calculations running behind her eyes, the careful weighing of what she can ask for and what she might actually receive.
Smart woman. I would expect nothing less from the woman who captured my attention and refused to let go.