30. Lucrezia
Chapter 30
Lucrezia
I come to slowly, my head feeling as if it’s been packed with damp cotton. The first thing I notice is the smell—damp and metallic like old water pipes and pennies left too long in the rain. The second is the ache in every muscle, a heaviness that sinks into my bones. I blink, trying to focus, and realize I’m lying on something coarse and uneven—a battered mattress that does little to cushion my body. My limbs protest as I push myself upright, dizziness rolling through my skull. How long have I been out?
The room is dim, illuminated by the single bare lightbulb that dangles from the ceiling. There are no windows; there is no breeze. The atmosphere is stale and thick, and my throat feels raw.
I try to remember what happened, forcing my sluggish mind to piece together the fragments: The bathroom at Raiden’s, the shower water running down the drain, steam beginning to rise—and then the sound of footsteps, no, that’s not right—it was quieter than footsteps, more like a shift in the air, a whisper of movement behind me—and then a hand on my throat, Kristopher’s voice like ice in my ear, a glint of metal, a syringe plunging deep...
My heart squeezes painfully. Panic flutters in my chest, but I will it down. I’ve survived worse. Right now, I need to figure out where I am and what I have to work with.
I roll my shoulders, wincing at the soreness, and scan the room carefully. The walls are pockmarked with holes, and a few pipes run along the ceiling. On one wall, someone has hammered a hook, and from it hangs a sweater I haven’t seen in years. It’s a faded green cardigan my mother used to wear when I was a child. Why the hell is it in this place?
I take a shaky breath, forcing myself to think logically. The door is made of heavy-looking wood with a reinforced frame and no simple lock that I can pick. There’s a bucket in one corner and a chipped basin of water in another. He must have taken everything he thinks I might use to escape. It was smart of him, really. I am nothing if not a survivor.
I’m not tied up. That surprises me. Maybe he’s confident I’m too weak to run. Or he wants me to try, to amuse himself. My stomach twists at the thought. The freedom to move feels like a taunt; I know better than to mistake it for mercy.
I hear footsteps outside the door, muffled by what might be another door outside this one. I can’t remember being brought inside. A moment later, the door to my prison swings open with a groan. Kristopher steps inside, and the sight of him makes me sick. He’s wearing a neat collared shirt and dark pants as if dressed for a casual dinner date. He carries a tray in one hand and a thermos in the other.
Kristopher closes the door behind him and sets the tray on a small wooden crate near the mattress. The smell of something warm drifts over—soup, maybe? My mouth waters despite myself, but I crush my hunger under a wave of disgust.
“You’re finally awake,” he says softly, his voice calm and affectionate. “I was beginning to worry, Lux.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, my voice shaky but firm. The nickname on his lips makes my skin crawl, tainting what was once a term of endearment.
He smiles, a slow curve of the lips that never reaches his eyes. Those eyes remain cold, calculating, and watching my every move. “Lux, Lucrezia, my darling. Names are trivial. What matters is that you’re here. With me. Right where you belong.”
I force myself to meet his gaze. “I’m not with you. I’m your prisoner.”
Kristopher tuts softly, crouching down to eye level, the thermos balanced on his knee. “Prisoner is such a harsh word. Let’s say... guest . A guest who needs some guidance.” His tone is gentle, as if he’s explaining something to a confused child.
My lips curl in disgust, stomach-churning at his attempt to sugarcoat the horror of this situation. “If you think I’m going to play along with your sick fantasy?—“
His free hand moves fast, too fast for me to react. Kristopher touches my face, a gentle stroke of his knuckles along my cheek. The intimacy of it makes me shudder, revulsion crawling up my spine with icy fingers. Without thinking, I slap him hard, my palm cracking against his skin with all the force I can muster. The sound echoes in the small room, leaving behind a ringing silence and the angry red imprint of my hand on his pale cheek.
Fury flashes in Kristopher’s eyes, turning them wild. Before I can brace myself, he lunges forward and grabs me by the throat, shoving me back against the mattress. My head whips against the wall, pain blooming at the base of my skull. He applies pressure, not enough to choke me but enough to make breathing difficult.
“Do that again,” he hisses, “and you’ll see how bad this can get.” His breath is hot and smells faintly of mint. I fight the urge to show fear, but I’m terrified.
He holds me there a moment longer, letting the threat settle, then releases me abruptly. I suck in air, chest heaving with desperate gulps that scrape past my tender windpipe. My throat throbs where his fingers dug in. I want to scream, to curse him with every vile word I know, but I need to pick my battles. My eyes burn with hatred, tears of rage threatening to spill, but I stay quiet, clenching my fists in the sheets until my knuckles turn white to stop my hands from shaking. The cotton fabric twists and bunches between my fingers, bearing the brunt of emotions I dare not release.
Kristopher’s smile returns as if this outburst was just a blip in his perfect evening. He picks up the thermos, unscrews the lid, and pours the soup into a chipped mug. The steam curls upward, fogging the space between us.
“Don’t worry, Lucrezia,” he says, voice calm again. “I’ll take care of you better than he ever could. Raiden,” he almost spits the name, “is just muscle and ignorance. He doesn’t understand what you need. But I do.”
The mention of Raiden sends a spear of pain through my chest, so sharp it steals my breath for a moment. I imagine Raiden discovering I’m gone, the rage and desperation he must have felt. Will he find me? He must. I hold onto that hope like a lifeline.
“I don’t need anything from you,” I manage. “Except to let me go.”
Kristopher snorts softly, placing the mug near my feet. “Let you go? Why would I do that? You belong with me, Lux. I’m the only one who’s ever fought for you, been there for you. I’ve watched you—” His voice takes on a dreamy quality, eyes shining with unholy admiration. “I’ve seen how the world fails you, how you’re always fighting for scraps of respect. No one has ever given you what you deserved. But I will.”
My stomach twists. “All you’re giving me is a reason to kill you when I get free.”
He laughs, a short bark of amusement. “Such spirit,” he purrs, leaning in as if to kiss my forehead. I jerk my head away, but he doesn’t pursue it. Instead, he brushes a strand of my hair behind my ear as if I’m a doll. The casual affection is nauseating. “You’ll come around,” he says with an unbothered smile.
I swallow hard, forcing down the panic. I need a plan to get out of here. The door is locked, Kristopher’s bigger and stronger than me, and I’m still recovering from whatever he injected me with. My limbs feel weak, and my head is still fuzzy. There’s nothing I can use as a weapon—not yet. I just have to endure and wait for an opportunity.
“Eat,” he says, tapping the mug with his knuckle. He’s brought soup and bread, and the smell makes my stomach growl. It would be easy to refuse, but I know I’ll need my strength. Still, I hesitate. “Don’t worry,” he says, reading my expression. “I won’t drug you again. Not if you behave.”
He’s treating this like some twisted courtship, playing the role of attentive captor with unsettling enthusiasm. My defiance earlier didn’t scare him off; it only excited him. Another wave of nausea hits me as I realize he wants me to resist a little because it’ll be more fun to break me down gradually, to watch my will erode piece by piece until there’s nothing left.
Kristopher pushes the tray closer, then stands, dusting off imaginary lint from his crisp shirt. “I’ll give you some time to settle in,” he says. “Maybe you’ll be more pleasant when I return.” His eyes rake over me with predatory intensity, lingering on my face, my arms, and my naked body, cataloging every detail of my discomfort. He wants to see fear, to bask in it. But I force my features into a mask of calm disdain.
“Go to hell.”
He chuckles as if I’ve told a charming joke. He steps back to the door and slips out into whatever lies beyond. The lock clicks with a metallic finality that echoes in my chest like a death knell. I’m alone again, heart pounding against my ribs so hard I wonder if he can hear it through the walls.
For a moment, I let myself crumble and cry. I’m so angry at the world, at Kristopher, at myself for getting caught off guard. I press a fist to my mouth to stifle a sob. I can’t break down now. I must think, plan, and survive. This is just another battlefield. I’ve fought battles my whole life, against my father’s cruelty, against my brothers’ indifference, against the entire patriarchal structure that tried to cage me. Kristopher is just another opponent, twisted and dangerous but not invincible.
I look at the sweater hanging on the hook. How did he get that? Did he break into Saverio’s home and rummage through old boxes? He knows more about me than I imagined. This isn’t a random act of madness; it’s orchestrated and personal.
I drag the tray closer, eyeing the food—soup, a simple broth with chunks of vegetables and chicken. The bread looks edible. My stomach protests; I’m hungry and need strength. After a moment of internal debate, I take a small sip of the broth from the mug. It’s lukewarm and over-salted. I grimace but swallow. I won’t let this kindness confuse me. He wants me weak and pliant, but I’ll use every crumb of energy to stay alert.
Kristopher may hold the keys to this impromptu jail cell, and he may even hold power for now, but I have something more substantial: resolve and the knowledge that Raiden, reckless and loyal, will turn the city upside down to find me.
Somewhere outside this cell, Kristopher is thinking that all his dreams are about to come true. He met me at sixteen. He fell in love with a girl who had the same disdain for the Castiglione family as he did. But he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know that fear can become fuel, that terror can sharpen the mind and stiffen the spine. He doesn’t know how hard I’ve fought to shape my own destiny.
Let him think this is easy. Let him underestimate me and believe I’m just another helpless captive who’ll break under pressure. When he comes back, I’ll learn more, watch his movements, and play the game until I find a crack in his defenses. And when Raiden storms in—because he will with all the subtlety of a bull—I’ll make sure Kristopher regrets everything he’s done.