Elara didn't sleep a wink her first night at the Valterra estate. It wasn't the room—too grand, too soft, too big—or the muffled steps of guards just outside. She just lay there, eyes fixed on the canopy, mind going a hundred miles an hour. Every shadow in that room felt like it was watching her. Every creak in the walls whispered things she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.
One thought kept hammering away at her, steady and impossible to ignore: I am a Moretti. And now, I am a Valterra. The idea tasted like ashes in her mouth.
Then morning showed up, dragging a storm with it. Not your average drizzle—this was the kind that turned the sky to steel and made the window panes shudder. The rain sounded like it wanted in, like it was reminding her that the world outside didn't give a damn about her problems. Inside, things felt even worse. She was about to see Alessio again.
She pushed her breakfast around, barely eating, when the doors swung open. No knock. No warning. Just Alessio, in black, sharp as a knife—nobody else with him. He filled the room without saying a word. This was the man who'd bought her life for fifty million, and he stood there like he owned the air itself.
"Elara," he said, voice low, dangerous. "We need to talk."
Her heart jumped. She sat up straighter, hands trembling, but she forced herself to steady them. "I'm listening," she managed, keeping her voice even.
He came closer, slowly, eyes locked on her, studying her like she was both a puzzle and a threat. "You are Moretti," he said. The name hit hard. "Your father tried to keep that from me. Didn't work. I know now. The truth always comes out."
Her chest tightened. She'd always had a feeling—her father's deal with the Valterras was no simple sale. There was more to it. Leverage. Old grudges. Now Alessio, the Serpent, knew exactly whose blood ran in her veins.
"You… you knew?" she whispered.
"I suspected," Alessio replied. "Not for sure, not until I saw the ledger. Not until I saw that mark on your wrist. Enemy blood runs through you, Elara. But you're here. Alive. And for now, you're mine."
That wasn't a promise. It was a claim. And Alessio never said things he didn't mean.
Elara shot to her feet, anger burning under her fear. "Mine? You don't know me. You have no idea what I'm capable of, what I'll do to survive. And yet you—"
His hand came up, sharp, cutting her off. "Enough. Don't mistake my patience for weakness. This is my house. You live by my rules, or you'll find out what happens when you don't—and you won't like it."
She clenched her jaw, furious. "And if I refuse? What if I don't play by your rules?"
He tilted his head, studying her like a wolf sizing up prey. A faint, cold smile tugged at his lips, never reaching his eyes. "Then you'll learn I'm very good at getting what I want."
A chill ran through her, but there was something else there too—a dangerous rush she tried to ignore.
She swallowed her words. Talking wouldn't help. Not here. Only action would.
Alessio's gaze shifted, softened just a little. He stepped closer, and the air between them grew heavy, charged with something neither wanted to name.
"Your father sold you," he said, quiet now, almost confessing. "I don't forgive him. I don't forgive you. Still…" He let the silence stretch. "…there's something about you I can't quite push away."
Her skin prickled. She should have been terrified, but curiosity—wild, reckless—flared up beside her fear.
"And you're going to learn," Alessio said, voice dipping lower, "enemy blood isn't weakness. It's survival. And surviving me? That's going to be the hardest thing you've ever done."
Elara stayed silent. Didn't move. Just stared at him, searching his face, trying to figure out the man who'd bought her life but somehow stayed out of reach—impossible to read, impossible to tame.
Without another word, Alessio turned and walked to the window, leaving her alone with the storm inside and out. She felt small, fragile, but she wouldn't cry. Wouldn't beg. Even trapped, even with enemy blood, she wasn't powerless.
Soon enough, Alessio would figure out that claiming her was one thing. Controlling her was another.
The hours crawled by. Rain battered the windows. Every time the door creaked, her heart jumped, hoping—or dreading—it would be him. But he never came back.
By nightfall, she saw it clear as day: these walls weren't just a cage. They were a battlefield. And she wasn't done fighting.
Trapped or not, with enemy blood running through her veins, she still had fight left in her.
And Alessio Valterra? He was king here. He was the storm.
Her enemy. Her captor. The riddle she couldn't solve.
Tomorrow, when their eyes met again, the war would start.