The city burned beneath them — lights flickering like distant gunfire — but inside the villa, everything was silent.
Rose didn't say a word as she walked down the marble hallway toward the master wing. Her heels clicked, echoing like heartbeats, and when she reached the bedroom, she didn't wait for Silvio to follow.
She shut the door behind her.
Locked it.
The veil was gone. The silk dress lay on the floor moments later.
She stepped into the bathroom — pale stone, silver fixtures, black tile — and turned the water on until it was scalding. Steam filled the room in seconds. She didn't flinch as the heat hit her skin. She wanted it to burn. She wanted the memory of that kiss, of the ceremony, of him, to wash away.
But it didn't.
Not even when she pressed her palms to the marble wall and let the water rush down her spine.
Not even when she closed her eyes and tried to breathe.
Because all she could think of was the way he'd looked at her.
Like she was already claimed.
And worse…
Like she wanted to be.
The door behind her opened.
She didn't turn.
She knew it was him.
The air shifted as Silvio stepped into the steam. His shoes landed with soft thuds, his jacket sliding off. Then his voice — low, quiet, almost vulnerable.
"You keep running from it," he said, "but you're not the only one who's afraid of this."
She turned her head, slowly.
He was already stripped to the waist, his skin marked with old scars she hadn't seen before — proof of wars he'd never spoken about.
And when he stepped into the shower behind her, he didn't touch her at first.
He just stood there.
Watching her shake.
Not from fear.
From the truth she couldn't deny anymore.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"No," he said, stepping closer, "you hate that you don't."
Then his hands were on her waist — not harsh, not controlling — just there, grounding her as she leaned back into him.
Her voice broke. "I shouldn't feel this."
"I know."
But he didn't stop her when she turned around, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him again.
And this time… she wasn't trying to win.
She was surrendering.
The kiss was different — no longer a weapon, but a confession. Their bodies pressed together under the water, breath tangling, hands sliding across soaked skin. Her fingers moved up his chest, slow and trembling, as if memorizing every scar. His lips moved down her jaw, then her throat, as if searching for something more than just hunger.
When he lifted her against the cold tile, she didn't resist.
She pulled him closer.
Not because she had to.
Because she craved him.
Because she was already his.
And in that moment, there were no titles.
No vengeance.
No past.
Only the slow rhythm of bodies learning each other in silence, the water falling like rain on a grave they'd both stood over for years.
She whispered his name.
He pressed his forehead to hers and whispered back, "Rose."
It was desperate. Beautiful. Broken.
And when they reached the edge together — shivering, panting, skin against skin — she realized something even more terrifying than love.
She didn't want to leave.
She wanted to stay.