Lorenzo took a shuddering breath.
"So your mind chose. It kept the horror—kept the warning of what I truly am—so you would know to be afraid, to protect yourself. And it erased everything else. Erased any reason you might have to trust me or care for me or see me as anything other than a monster."
Marie stared at her, tears streaming silently.
"I love you,"Lorenzo said simply, the words falling into the space between them like stones into water. "I know you cannot remember, but it is true. From the moment I met you, you became the most important person in my life."
Her voice grew more intense, more desperate.
"You are kind and fierce and beautiful and good. You make me want to be better than the curse that runs in my blood. You make me want to be the person you deserve rather than the monster I was born to be."
Tears flowed freely down Lorenzo's face.
"And everything I did—every man I killed, every act of violence you witnessed—I did it to save you. Matthew and his men were going to hurt you. Were going to do terrible, unforgivable things to you before delivering you to the King like a piece of property to be used and discarded."
Lorenzo's eyes blazed with desperate intensity despite the tears.
"I would do it again. A thousand times over. I would become that monster again and again if it meant keeping you safe. I would burn the entire world and damn my soul for eternity if it meant protecting you from harm."
Marie was shaking her head, fresh sobs making her whole body convulse.
"But why?" Marie asked, her voice breaking into pieces.
She gestured helplessly at Lorenzo, at the tent, at everything.
"Why would you risk everything? Why would you become that thing for someone who does not even remember loving you?"
Lorenzo looked at her—this terrified woman who could not remember their story, who saw only the monster and not the person—and spoke the simple, devastating truth.
"Because you did love me," Lorenzo said, her voice raw. "Even if you cannot remember it now, it was real. You chose me. You wanted me. You were beginning to open your heart to me despite everything."
She paused, gathering herself.
"And because I love you. That does not require you to remember or reciprocate. My love exists whether you feel it or not."
Lorenzo's voice dropped to barely a whisper.
"I know you do not remember. I know the shock has stolen those memories from you, locked them away where you cannot reach them. I know you only see the monster now, the creature covered in blood and death."
She looked directly into Marie's terrified eyes.
"But please, Marie... please know that I would never turn that darkness on you. The curse makes me capable of terrible things, but I would rather die a thousand deaths than hurt you. You are the one person in this world I would never, could never harm."
Marie stared down at this woman—this cursed creature—kneeling before her, weeping openly, declaring a love Marie could not remember inspiring.
And Marie felt so lost.
But underneath all of that—buried deep where logic could not quite reach it—was that persistent, aching feeling.
I love someone. I am in love. There is a person who holds my heart.
The feeling was real even if the memories were gone.
And looking at Lorenzo's obvious, genuine grief and devotion...
Marie had the terrible suspicion that the person she loved and could not remember was kneeling right in front of her.
Which meant she had fallen in love with a monster.
And somehow, that monster loved her back.
"I do not know what to do," Marie whispered finally, her voice small and lost and broken. "I do not remember you. I do not remember loving you. When I look at you, all I see is blood and death and those terrible glowing red eyes and teeth tearing into flesh."
Lorenzo closed her eyes, accepting the words like physical blows.
"But," Marie continued, her voice trembling, "I can see that you are in pain. I can see that you believe what you are saying. That you genuinely think you love me."
She took a shaky breath, trying to organize her chaotic thoughts and feelings..
" Even though I cannot remember it. Even though it makes no sense. Even though everything I do remember tells me I should be running as far from you as possible. Your sadness and distress hurts me"
Lorenzo opened her eyes, and though fresh tears fell, there was a flicker of desperate hope in her expression.
Marie held up a hand before Lorenzo could speak.
"But I cannot give you what you want," Marie said firmly, though her voice still shook. "I cannot pretend to remember. I cannot force myself to feel something I simply do not feel right now. I cannot make myself not be afraid of you."
She wrapped her arms around herself, a protective gesture.
"So I will not run from you. I will not demand to be taken somewhere you cannot follow."
She paused, choosing her words carefully.
"I believe you when you say you will not hurt me. I can see your pain is genuine. I can see you truly believe you love me, and I will not turn on you for that."
Her expression hardened slightly, protective walls going up.
"But I also do not want to be around you any more than absolutely necessary. Every time I look at you, I see that creature covered in blood. Every time you come near me, I feel terror. And I cannot help that. I cannot control it."
Marie met Lorenzo's eyes directly, her own red and swollen from crying but steady now.
"So I will be civil. I will be fair. I will not treat you as an enemy. But I cannot be your wife. Not right now. Maybe not ever. I need space. I need time. I need you to keep your distance from me."
The words landed like hammer blows.
Lorenzo's face showed the devastation clearly, but she nodded slowly.
"I understand," Lorenzo said, her voice thick with barely-controlled emotion. "That is more than I deserve. More than I have any right to ask for."
She slowly stood, her movements careful and deliberate, non-threatening.
"I will give you all the space you need," Lorenzo said. "I will keep my distance. I will not force my presence on you or try to make you remember or pressure you in any way."
She turned toward the tent entrance, then paused.
"But Marie," Lorenzo said quietly, not looking back, "if you ever want to know more about me. The truth—about the curse, about why I live as a man, about what happened between us before your memories were taken—you need only ask, I will tell you everything. Whenever you are ready."
Marie said nothing, just watched this stranger who claimed to be her beloved walk toward the exit.
"And if you ever need anything," Lorenzo continued, her voice barely above a whisper, "protection, assistance, someone to talk to—anything at all—I will be here. Always. Whether you remember loving me or not."
Lorenzo pushed aside the tent flap.
"I love you, Marie," she said without turning around. "That will not change. Even if you never remember. Even if you never love me again. That will not change."
Then she stepped out into the gathering darkness.
Bess who was nearby with Marcello immediately rushed back in, going straight to Marie and gathering her into a tight embrace.
Marie clung to her and wept—for the memories she had lost, for the love she could not remember, for the terror that had replaced everything good.
Outside, Lorenzo stood in the cold night air, surrounded by her soldiers who watched her with a mixture of awe and fear.
She had saved Marie's life.
And in doing so, she had lost the only person who had ever made her want to be something more than cursed.
Marie was alive.
Safe.
And terrified of the person who loved her most in the world.
For now, that would have to be enough.
Even if it broke Lorenzo's heart into pieces she was not sure could ever be put back together.
The travel from the grove to Henry's court was swift and ruthlessly efficient.
Lorenzo's soldiers moved like a well-oiled machine—setting camp at dusk, breaking it before dawn, always pushing forward. Lorenzo herself was everywhere at once, organizing supplies, checking equipment, ensuring every detail was perfect.
But mostly, she was gone.
On the longest patrols. The hardest rides. Any task that would take her away from the camp where Marie was.
Marie, for her part, welcomed the distance with an almost desperate gratitude.
During the day, she could breathe.
She spent her hours lost in books—histories and poetry that Bess brought her, anything to occupy her mind so it would not circle endlessly back to fragments she could not quite grasp. She sat with Bess, listening to her familiar voice discussing embroidery patterns and camp gossip, anchoring herself to the present moment.
She walked with Pierro who seemed content to chat about nothing in particular—the weather, the road ahead, the villages they passed through.
And she walked with Marcello.
The older man was patient with her confusion, never pushing her to remember, never making her feel inadequate for the loss of her own memories. He told her stories about Lorenzo's childhood, her training, her early battles—stories that painted a picture of a complex, wounded person rather than the monster Marie had witnessed.
These walks became Marie's refuge.
But the nights...
The nights were where Marie's mind betrayed her.
Deep in sleep, the nightmares came.
She would cry out in her dreams—short, sharp gasps of pure terror. She would wake up gasping, her whole body drenched in sweat, her heart racing so fast she thought it might break through her ribs.
Bess, sleeping in her tent, would hear these cries and wake to comfort her.
But beyond the canvas walls, in the darkness of the camp, Lorenzo heard every sound.
Her inhuman hearing picked up each sob, each gasp, each moment of Marie's suffering with crystalline clarity. Even from a distance, even through the muffled barriers of tents and night, Lorenzo could hear the way Marie's breath came in panicked bursts, could hear the way she whimpered her nightmares into the darkness.
She wanted to hold Marie. To comfort her. To promise her that the nightmares could not hurt her.
And she wanted...
Other things.
Things that made her body burn hot and feverish in the darkness.
Sometimes, Lorenzo would use her inhuman speed to slip into Marie's tent while she slept. She would stand in the shadows, watching Marie thrash and whimper, and her hands would clench with need.
She would look at Marie's pale throat, exposed and vulnerable in sleep, and feel her fangs threaten to extend.
She would look at Marie's lips, slightly parted, and wonder what would happen if she kissed her. What Marie would taste like. Whether she would wake up screaming or—
The thought made Lorenzo's body burn almost feverish.
Since she had unleashed the full extent of her power in that grove, the cravings had intensified to the point of agony.
Blood.
She needed blood in a way she never had before. The taste of it, the smell of it, the intoxicating rush of it coating her tongue and sliding down her throat.
And underneath that, another hunger entirely.
Marie.
Her Marie, sleeping peacefully unaware that the woman who loved her was standing mere feet away, struggling not to touch her, not to claim her, not to pin her to the mattress and take her over and over.
Lorenzo would force herself to leave before her control snapped completely.
They arrived at Henry's court on a crisp autumn afternoon, the English sky grey and oppressive, the palace looming ahead like some massive stone beast.
Marie was dressed in a gown that took Lorenzo's breath away.
It was Italian in design—emerald silk that clung to her curves before flowing outward, the neckline just low enough to suggest rather than reveal, the fabric shifting with her movements like water. The color caught her eyes, making them seem impossibly green, almost luminous.
Her red-gold hair was arranged in an elaborate style, ringlets framing her face, and when the afternoon light caught it, Lorenzo could swear it caught fire.
Her skin looked warm and alive, her freckles seeming to come into sharper focus across her shoulders and the delicate bones of her collarbones.
She looked ethereal. Perfect.
And she was not looking at Lorenzo at all.
Instead, she was walking with Pierro at her side, the young soldier pointing out architectural details of the palace with animated gestures, and Marie was smiling up at him—not the careful, rigid smile she reserved for Lorenzo, but a genuine, warm smile that made her whole face light up.
She seemed to gravitate toward Pierro's company with an ease that was becoming increasingly difficult for Lorenzo to witness without her hands clenching into fists.
Marcello noticed, of course.
He always noticed.
Marcello leaned in close, his expression full of wry amuse
"Se non conoscessero la situazione, penserebbero che lei è il suo amante," (If they did not know the situation, they would think he is her lover,) Lorenzo said her eyes gleaming with bitter jealousy
"Beh, la prima volta che l'ha vista accanto a Marie, sembrava che la divorrebbe se non ci fosse nessuno intorno," (Well, the first time I saw you standing next to Marie, you did seem like you would devour the girl if there was no one,) Marcello replied, reaching up to adjust Lorenzo's uniform and straighten her small circlet crown.
Lorenzo shoved him away roughly, but kept her voice to a furious whisper.
"Non sei divertente," (You are not amusing me.) Lorenzo said through gritted teeth.
"Dagli tempo, tornerà da te," (Give her time, she will come back to you,) Marcello said, his tone shifting to something more genuine, more protective. "Sii paziente e cerca di stare intorno a lei più spesso." (Just be patient and try to hang around her more often.)
Lorenzo did not respond, just turned away sharply and approached Marie.
Marie immediately curtsied—a formal, rigid gesture that felt like an arrow through Lorenzo's heart. There was no warmth in it. No familiarity. Just the acknowledgment of a woman to her husband in front of court.
Lorenzo wanted to scream.
Instead, she gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached, then bowed slightly —a minimal greeting that matched Marie's own reserve.
They held hands briefly as protocol demanded, their fingers barely touching.
For Marie, it was the sudden, confused realization that her body was responding to the touch of this woman she could not remember. The feeling made her flush with embarrassment and something darker, more complicated.
"It is time," Lorenzo said, her voice carefully controlled, "stay by my side and ... just bear with me as I figure out a way out of this."
Marie nodded, her breathing slightly accelerated, and that was when she noticed something had changed.
Lorenzo's hair was shorter now—cut close to her scalp in a style that exposed the elegant line of her neck, the sharp edge of her jaw.
She had lost weight as well. Not dramatically, but enough that her jawline had become more defined, more aristocratic, more—
Marie's eyes moved to Lorenzo's lips before she could stop herself.
And her face flooded with heat.
She was blushing. Actually blushing.
At the thought of what these lips could do to her.
She forced her eyes away quickly, but not before she felt that strange, confused spark of desire ignite low in her belly, sending heat spiraling through her in ways she did not quite know how to name or control.
Lorenzo, standing beside her, felt that small involuntary tremor in Marie's hand.
Her nostrils flared slightly as she caught the subtle shift in Marie's scent—the delicate perfume of her desire cutting through everything else, drawing every predatory instinct in Lorenzo to sharp attention.
She had to tighten her grip on Marie's hand to keep from pulling her into the shadows right then and there.
The nobles of Henry's court lined the corridors in silent acknowledgment as the small entourage made its way toward the throne room, bowing as they passed like wheat bending in wind.
The great doors opened onto the throne room itself—soaring stone walls rising toward a ceiling that seemed impossibly high, disappearing into shadows that candlelight could not quite reach. Massive chandeliers hung like frozen cascades of ice and fire, throwing flickering light across the space in patterns that made the entire room seem to shift and breathe.
The floor was polished to such a shine that it reflected the candlelight like a frozen lake of gold and amber.
It was a demonstration of power made physical.
The herald's voice rang out through the palace, cutting through her spiraling thoughts.
His Highness Lorenzo di Sforza and Lady Marie Boleyn!
Beside them, Marcello muttered in Italian under his breath, "Bastardi. Come osano." (Bastards. How dare they.)
They had called Lorenzo a prince when calling Marie by her maiden name. A deliberate slight, a deliberate reminder that her legitimacy was questioned, her claims were questioned, her very existence as Lorenzo's wife was denied.
Lorenzo's hand tightened on Marie's, but her voice remained steady, calm.
"Non dimenticare che cercheranno di farci sbagliare," (Do not forget they will try to make us make mistakes,) Lorenzo said to Marcello. "Rimaniamo calmi." (Let us stay composed.)
The guards entered first, marching two abreast, their pikes raised in salute as they split to form a corridor down the center of the hall. Behind them came the standard-bearer, hoisting high the banner that bore Lorenzo's sigil. Then came Lorenzo herself, Marie's hand in hers, her grip surprisingly gentle despite the tension radiating off her body. Behind them walked the rest of the entourage in strict order of rank. Marcello trailed last, close enough to be near them, far enough to seem inconsequential, like a shadow no one thought to question.
Lorenzo felt Marie's hand trembling in her own.
"Coraggio, mia cara," she murmured, barely a breath. (Courage, my dear.) "Loro mordono solo se mostri paura." (They only bite if you show fear.)
"Questo lo sapresti tu meglio d'ogni altro," disse sottovoce. (That, you would know better than anyone.) she said under her breath, "Del resto, il morso non ti è mai dispiaciuto. Anzi, potresti insegnar loro un paio di cose." (Besides, biting has never displeased you. In fact, you might teach them a thing or two.),"