The moonlight cast silver shadows across the polished floors of the villa, spilling through the wide windows of their Maldivian retreat. The air smelled of salt and jasmine, heavy and warm. Rose stood in silence at the edge of the balcony, her silk robe fluttering gently around her knees. She could still feel the press of Silvio's lips on her collarbone from earlier, the way he had looked at her after their last kiss—like he couldn't decide whether to worship her or consume her whole.
But now, he was asleep again.
And Rose couldn't sleep.
She moved soundlessly across the room, her bare feet sinking into the thick rug. Silvio lay on his side, one arm flung over the empty side of the bed where she had been only moments ago. In sleep, he looked younger. Less like the king of secrets and blood-stained loyalty—and more like a man who had carried too much alone.
She tiptoed past the bed and approached the carved chest near the wall—the one he kept locked.
Except tonight, it wasn't locked.
Something about that struck her as intentional.
As if he wanted her to look.
Her hands trembled slightly as she lifted the lid.
Inside were bundles of old letters, photos, and an unmarked black notebook. She hesitated before opening it—this felt like trespassing. But her curiosity, sharpened by everything she'd uncovered so far, overpowered her restraint. Slowly, she flipped the cover.
Sketches. Dozens of them. Of her mother—Isobel.
In charcoal, in ink, in fading pencil.
All of them drawn by Silvio.
She inhaled sharply. In some, Isobel looked strong, dangerous. In others, fragile and lost. But every stroke was intimate, worshipful—like Silvio had etched his grief into the pages one line at a time.
Beneath them, newer pages. More recent sketches.
Of her.
Rose.
Naked shoulders. Her profile caught mid-laugh. The angle of her hands brushing through wet hair. In some, her expression was unreadable, but there was a heat to the drawings—an ache. Like Silvio couldn't stop seeing her even when she wasn't in the room.
Rose's heart thudded in her chest.
She heard the sheets shift.
"Looking for something, la fiora?"
She froze.
His voice was sleep-rough, edged with amusement and something darker. When she turned, he was sitting up, the low light catching the sharp angles of his face. His eyes, however, weren't angry.
They were... knowing.
"You left it unlocked," she whispered.
"I did," he said. "I wanted you to find it."
She closed the notebook slowly, placing it back in the chest.
"Why?" Her voice cracked slightly. "Why all of this?"
Silvio rose from the bed, the sheet falling away from his bare torso. He didn't reach for clothes. Just walked toward her with that same predator grace he always had—except this time, there was something softer at the edges.
"Because you deserve to know that this obsession didn't begin with your body, or even with your blood," he said. "It began long before either of us understood what it would cost."
He stood in front of her now, eyes burning into hers.
"I wanted to protect you. And I wanted to keep you. Two desires that cannot coexist in my world."
Rose swallowed, her throat dry. "Then why bring me into it?"
"Because I was already drowning in you," he whispered. "Keeping you away didn't save you—it only made you a target. And now that you're mine, I'll destroy anyone who even thinks of taking you away."
She looked up at him, her breath catching. The possessiveness in his voice wasn't a threat—it was a promise.
He leaned down and kissed her.
It wasn't like before—rushed or heated or laced with frustration. This kiss was deep, slow, and reverent. His hands cradled her jaw as if she was breakable. She melted against him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, wanting him closer—needing him.
When they pulled apart, he pressed his forehead to hers.
"Promise me something," he murmured.
"What?"
"That if something happens—if this war touches you again—you won't run. You'll come to me."
Rose nodded slowly, her hands tightening in his hair. "Only if you promise to stop hiding things from me."
Silvio smirked slightly. "That's harder than it sounds."
"I'm not afraid of your darkness anymore," she said, voice quiet but firm. "I just don't want to be swallowed by it."
There was a beat of silence.
Then he kissed her again.
Afterward, they lay tangled in bed, her head resting on his chest as his fingers traced slow circles across her back. But even in that warmth, Rose felt the chill of something shifting.
Eleanor was still alive. And now, more than ever, Rose knew that woman wasn't finished.
There were too many secrets left buried—and some of them were already rising.
She closed her eyes, listening to Silvio's heartbeat beneath her ear.
She would stay. She would fight. And when the final truth surfaced—when the monsters came clawing out of the past—she would be ready.
No longer a girl searching for answers.
But a woman who had already tasted the fire—and survived.