Chapter 67 Grace
Ihide the cyanide. It feels like the only logical thing to do. I stash it in the bottom of my bag hoping it’ll be safe there, because it’s not like I have anywhere else to hide it. I don’t know how long we will be here, how long we will remain in Italy.
But as I turn around, I spot something. Something Antonio has clearly left for me.
My fingers tremble as I open the scarlet red box. Diamonds, so many diamonds sparkle inside.
It’s a collar, a beautiful, decadent collar with diamonds cut into long thin stones that look like a thousand daggers.
It is the most beautiful, most terrible thing I have ever seen.
It represents everything about us, about me, about what I am to him. My gilded cage. My body, my presence, my fractured spirit, all boiled down to a price tag he can casually exceed.
I let out a sigh that could be a scream, that could also be my soul fracturing into a million tiny pieces.
I’m losing my mind.
I shouldn’t feel this, I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t look at that collar and feel betrayal when all I am to him, all I ever have been is his pet. His plaything, his damned trophy he can show off and abuse.
I flee the room, flee the space that we share, and return back to the brutal heat of the sun. I’d rather burn up in it, rather fry in its rays than deal with my thoughts right now.
I don’t know how long I stay out there, how long I am lost in my bitter tormented thoughts but I know exactly who it is when I hear the door open, when I hear the sound of footsteps approaching.
I stiffen just as his fingers brush my shoulder.
“You didn’t like it?” He asks and I see what he’s holding out, dangling from his hand.
It feels like a war rages inside me.
“It’s breathtaking,” I whisper, and the honesty of that is its own kind of lie.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He leans down, his cheek brushing against my hair as his scent wraps around me. “Then why haven’t you put it on?”
I swallow. I’ve had hours to concoct a dozen answers but only the truth, the carefully curated truth he expects will suffice. “I thought you’d want to do that,” I say softly, layering the words with a subservience I know pleases him.
The effect is immediate. His smile widens and he looks pleased, as if I’ve paid him a great compliment, acknowledged his dominion in the way he most desires. “A good thought,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with approval.
He turns me to face him, his movements efficient, sure.
I tilt my head back, baring my throat in a gesture of surrender that has become second nature.
His fingers are deft as they brush my hair aside.
The metal is shockingly cool against my skin.
I hear the tiny, definitive click of the clasp closing.
The weight of it is immediate. Not just the physical weight of the diamonds, but the symbolic heft. It’s a shackle. A crown. I am never allowed to forget what I am to him.
He steps back, his eyes sweeping over me with a critic’s appraisal that quickly flames into something hotter, more possessive. “Beautiful,” he breathes. “You have more diamonds than a queen now.”
Something about those words breaks something inside me.
A dam of silence and submission that I have painstakingly built for so long. The exquisite beauty of the collar, the staggering cost of it, the sheer wrongness of it all crashes down. It isn’t anger that floods me but a profound, soul-crushing sorrow.
My chin drops to my chest, a single, traitorous tear escaping and tracing a hot path down my cheek, landing on the cold platinum.
He sees it. Of course he does, because Antonio Macrae misses nothing.
He moves back into my space, his hand coming up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing away the wetness.
His touch is surprisingly gentle. “What is it?” he asks, and the tone is all wrong.
It’s not mocking, not impatient. It’s concerned.
It suggests he actually cares about the answer, and that is more dangerous than any of his anger.
The false concern, the Master toying with his pet, is the final straw.
“You don’t get it,” I whisper, my voice thick with an emotion I can no longer contain. “You don’t get it at all, do you?”
His brow furrows slightly. “Get what?”
“Everyone sees you as the Kingmaker,” I say, the words tumbling out now, reckless and raw.
“And you are. With all your money, your power, your… this.” My hand flutters weakly towards the collar.
“You move pieces on a board and call it destiny, but what you don’t realise is there is so much more to the world than just that.
So much more to people than mere things to be used. ”
A familiar, cynical mask starts to slip over his features. The moment of softness is gone, replaced by wry amusement. “Than money and power?” he replies, his voice half-mocking. “Do enlighten me. Is it sunsets and poetry? The laughter of children?”
I shake my head, another tear following the first. He doesn’t understand. He is incapable of understanding. The realization is like a bolt to my heart, brutal and agonising.
He watches the tear fall, his thumb stroking my cheekbone. The mockery fades, replaced by a look of intense curiosity. “Speak,” he commands, but it’s softer than usual. A concession. “I won’t punish you for your words. Tell me what it is I am so blind to.”
I take a shaky breath, my heart hammering against the confines of the diamond collar. “A king isn’t made by a crown,” I say, my voice gaining a sliver of strength. “It isn’t made by power, because any man can have that. Any ruthless, brutal man can take that. It’s just force.”
His eyes narrow, intrigued now. A predator presented with a new, puzzling prey. “Then tell me, what makes a king, Grace?”
The use of my real name is a shock to my system. It makes me look at him, truly look at him. At the man beneath the empire, the boy who might have once believed in something more. My cheeks heat under his intense gaze with a flush of vulnerability and something dangerously like hope.
“Tell me,” he insists, his voice low, compelling.
The word is a breath, a confession, a prayer. “Love.”
For a moment, there is only silence. The word hangs between us, fragile and immense.
Then, he shakes his head in a slow, dismissive movement.
The brief window into his soul slams shut.
“Such notions are ridiculous,” he says, his voice flat, final.
“Sentimental nonsense for those who can afford to be weak.”
The dismissal is like a slap.
The fragile hope shatters, and in its place a hot, defensive anger surges.
I step back, out of his reach, the collar feeling like a burning brand.
“Is it?” I snap, my voice trembling with a fury that surprises us both.
“Love has brought down more men than power and money ever could. Empires have crumbled for it. Thrones have been abdicated. Love is what makes grown men, supposed kings,” I spit the word, “drop to their knees before a woman. Not because they have to, but because they want to. Because she is their true crown.”
His expression darkens, the patience evaporating. My outburst has crossed an invisible line, and I know I’m going to pay dearly for this.
He closes the distance between us in one swift stride, his anger a palpable force. “And is that what you want from me?” he snarls, his hand snapping out to grip my arm, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop my retreat. “You want me on my knees before you, pup?”
The anger in his voice is a cold dash of reality. I tremble, the fight draining out of me as quickly as it came. Jesus Christ, what was I thinking? He is Antonio Macrae. He doesn’t love. He conquers, he possesses. He doesn’t kneel for anyone.
I drop my head, the weight of the diamonds suddenly unbearable. I’ve overstepped. I’ve misjudged the moment, the man, every fucking thing.
My heart doesn’t just break; it seems to atomize, dissolving into a fine dust of utter despair.
He doesn’t love me. He’s not capable of love.
I am a spoil of war, a trophy to play with until he grows bored. This collar, this beautiful, terrible thing is just the latest and most expensive trinket to adorn his favourite pet.
I wait for the punishment. The cold withdrawal, the cruel remark that will put me back in my place.
It doesn’t come.
Instead he makes a soft, chiding sound.
And then he steps into me, his grip on my arm loosening, transforming. He pulls me into his arms.
It’s not a passionate embrace, nor is it the claiming grip of a owner. It’s an embrace. One arm wraps around my back, holding me firmly against the solid wall of his chest. His other hand cups the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair.
I am frozen, utterly bewildered. He has never held me like this. It feels like comfort, it feels like shelter.
I am stiff in his arms, afraid to breathe, afraid this is some new, exquisite torture.
“I forget how young you are, Grace,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against my ear. There’s use of my name again, not as a key but as a sad, final verdict. “So beautifully, tragically young and na?ve to believe a world like that exists.”
He embraces me for a long moment, just holding me.
And the terrible, traitorous part of my heart, the part that loves him against all reason and hope begins to stitch itself back together with this fragile thread. Maybe he is not incapable, maybe he is just afraid. Maybe this is his version of love, the only way he knows how to show it.
He slowly pulls back, just enough to look down at me. His dark eyes search my face, and in their depths, I see not anger but a strange, weary conflict. He sees my shattered expression, the tears still clinging to my lashes.
He lifts his hand, his thumb gently tracing my lower lip. The air crackles with unspoken things. The anger is gone, replaced by a tension that is infinitely more terrifying.
He lowers his head and kisses me.
It’s not like his other kisses. It’s not a demand, nor a punishment, nor a celebration of conquest.
It is slow. Deep. Devastatingly tender.
It’s a kiss that feels like an apology and a confession all at once.
His lips are soft, moving over mine with a reverence that steals the breath from my lungs.
One hand remains tangled in my hair, the other sliding to the small of my back, pressing me closer, not with hunger but with a need that feels terrifyingly genuine.
I try to convince myself it isn’t loving. He’s manipulating you, a voice screams in my head. This is a new game. He doesn’t love you. He can’t.
But my stupid, traitorous, wishful heart is screaming something else. It is beating a frantic, hopeful rhythm against his chest, begging me to believe the language of this kiss over the language of his words.
For one terrifying, beautiful moment wrapped in the arms of my captor, wearing the diamond collar of his possession, I allow myself to believe the lie.