The wedding feast had ended hours ago, but Aria could still feel the weight of every stare, every whispered congratulations that sounded more like curses.
Now, she stood in the doorway of Dante Moretti's bedroom.
The room was vast, lined with shelves of leather-bound books and shadowed by curtains heavy enough to drown the moonlight. A fire crackled in the hearth, throwing gold light over a bed far too large, draped in black silk sheets. It felt less like a sanctuary and more like a throne room.
Dante shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a chair with casual elegance. He poured himself a drink at the bar, movements precise, deliberate. The silence between them stretched like a blade.
"You didn't eat," he said finally, his back to her.
Aria lifted her chin. "Poison never agreed with my stomach."
The glass paused at his lips. Then, slowly, he turned, storm-grey eyes narrowing with dark amusement. "You think I'd poison my own wife?"
"I think," she said, taking a step deeper into the room, "that my brother is dead, and you're the reason."
The air thickened. For a moment, the only sound was the fire snapping.
Dante set his glass down with a soft clink. "Careful, Aria. In this house, accusations come with consequences."
Her pulse thundered, but she refused to back down. "So does murder."
For the first time, his mask slipped. Just a flicker—something sharp, dangerous, feral—before his lips curved into that maddening half-smile. He crossed the room in three strides, and before she could retreat, his hand was braced on the wall beside her head.
Aria's breath caught, not in fear, but in fury at the way his nearness stole the air from her lungs.
"You hate me," Dante murmured, his voice a low rumble, "and yet here you are, wearing my ring, standing in my bedroom." His fingers brushed the diamond band on her hand, a possessive, deliberate touch. "Every vow you swore tonight binds you to me."
Her eyes blazed. "A vow forced isn't a vow at all."
Dante's gaze swept over her face, lingering on her lips, before returning to her eyes. "Maybe. But in my world, vows are sealed in blood, not choice. And you, cara mia, are mine. Whether you like it or not."
Her heart hammered wildly, but she forced herself to smirk, tilting her chin higher. "Then you've crowned yourself with a bride who will gladly slit your throat while you sleep."
For a moment, silence. Then—Dante laughed. Deep, rich, dangerous. He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.
"Good," he whispered. "A queen should have teeth."
His hand slid down from the wall, tracing the curve of her arm before releasing her. He stepped back, reclaiming his glass, as though their exchange had been nothing more than idle conversation.
Aria's legs trembled, but she refused to let him see it. She moved to the bed and sat, her veil discarded, her gown heavy around her like chains. Her fingers itched to reach for the dagger hidden beneath her skirts, the one her brother had given her before he died.
But not yet.
Not tonight.
Dante drained his drink and set the glass aside. He studied her in silence for a long moment, and the firelight cast shadows across his sharp jawline, his calculating eyes.
Then he spoke. "Rest, Aria. Tomorrow, the real war begins."
Aria's throat tightened, but she forced her voice steady. "Good. I've been waiting for it."
His smirk returned, and with it, the dangerous gleam in his eyes that told her he knew more than he revealed. He extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into firelight and shadows.
Aria lay back on the bed, every nerve alive, every thought consumed by rage and revenge.
But under it all, beneath the fury, was something she hated even more than him.
The spark she felt whenever his storm-grey eyes met hers.
And she knew—this marriage would be her ruin.
Or his.