Chapter Thirteen – Severo
Dante Estate – Garden Court at Night
The moon hangs heavy tonight, swollen above the garden like a watchful eye. Its light pools over the roses I’ve coaxed into bloom—scarlet, pearl, wine-dark—open-mouthed and opulent as if they know something sacred is about to happen.
Lira stands beside me, barefoot in the grass, draped in the loose silk Matteo laid out for her.
The color is bone-white. She looks like she’s been carved out of mist. A strange calm has settled over her since she arrived, though her hands twitch sometimes, like they want to curl into fists but don’t quite make it.
We’re alone in the garden, save Matteo and the two old men I called in from Calabria—keepers of rites, notaries of the old blood. They’ve performed this union only twice in their lives. They don’t speak much. Their presence is enough.
Matteo approaches, black-gloved and formal, holding the velvet-lined tray. Two rings. One thin and ancient. The other thicker, cast in Dante steel.
Lira stares at them like they might burn her.
She should be afraid. That’s the only way the ceremony works.
One of the elders steps forward and begins to speak in Italian—low and rhythmic, like water rolling over stone.
I reach for her hand.
She doesn’t go away, but I feel the tension in her fingers as I pull her palm gently into mine.
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Do we really have to… bleed?”
The corners of my mouth twitch, amused.
I bring my free hand up to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek. My thumb lingers just beneath her eye. “It’s nothing. Just look at me.”
She does.
And she’s trembling.
Good.
The blade I draw from my belt is ceremonial, thin as a whisper, etched with my father’s insignia along the hilt. Its edge has tasted many vows.
I tighten my hold on her hand.
“One stroke,” I say. “You won’t even feel it.”
That’s a lie. But it sounds good.
She bites her bottom lip.
Then I drag the blade cleanly across her palm.
She gasps—soft and startled—but I hush her, pressing my forehead to hers for a moment. “It’s fine. It’s done.”
A bright line of red wells in her palm.
I draw my own hand up and slice through the skin without hesitation. The sting is nothing.
Then I press our palms together, blood mixing, warm and slick and ancient.
The elder steps forward again, wrapping both our hands in a length of black silk.
He murmurs the final line.
Matteo goes forward, slipping the iron ring onto my finger, then placing the finer band onto Lira’s. Her hand is cold. Her pupils blown wide.
I kiss her knuckles.
“It’s done,” I whisper.
And I smile.
Because now she belongs to me.
She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, ankles together, hands in her lap like she’s bracing for impact.
The silk of her nightdress pools around her thighs like spilled moonlight.
One candle flickers on the bedside table, catching the hollow of her throat, the slash of white gauze still wrapped around her palm.
Mine matches.
My blood. Hers. Still crusted and dark where it seeped through the bandage.
She looks up at me, and it’s not nerves in her eyes. It’s something older than that. Hunger. The kind you don’t speak aloud, not even in the dark.
Her knees are pressed together. Feet tucked under the hem. Spine straight. Her eyes, though… they flick to the corner of the room like she’s rehearsing her exit.
I cross to her slowly and crouch before her. Not kneeling. Crouching. Close enough to catch the warmth off her knees. Close enough to unsettle.
She doesn’t move.
“Why did you come back?” I ask, voice soft.
Then she looks at me—not with affection, not with fear, but with the hollow focus of someone choosing to survive.
“You knew I would,” she says.
I smile. A slow, tired curl of the mouth that doesn’t quite touch my eyes. “I told you,” I murmur, “you’re hungry.”
Her breath hitches. And then it comes—barely a whisper but weighted like confession.
“Yes.” A pause. “Yes, I am.”
“I’ll feed you,” I whisper, so low it’s almost nothing. “Every day. Every time you let me.”
Her breath catches.
And I lean in and take her mouth.
She tastes like honey and salt, with a softer undercurrent that hits me like a revelation, unraveling a hunger I didn’t know I carried until this moment.
Her mouth opens beneath mine, warm and yielding, moving with a rhythm that feels eternal, like we’ve been locked in this kiss across lifetimes.
My hand glides up her arm, fingers brushing the edge of the bandage, tracing the delicate curve of her shoulder, feeling the heat of her skin under my touch.
She shivers as I ease the strap of her nightdress off, the silk slipping down to reveal her breast—full, flushed, achingly perfect.
My gaze doesn’t waver, drinking her in as I lower my head, pressing a reverent kiss just beneath the curve, slow and deliberate.
The sound she makes—soft, throaty, unguarded—sends a jolt straight to my core.
Her fingers weave into my hair, not tugging, just anchoring, as if she’s clinging to me to keep from falling apart.
I sink to my knees before her, a supplicant to her altar.
The nightdress gathers at her waist as I trail kisses down her belly, the softness of her skin making my teeth ache with want.
I hook my hands under her knees, parting her thighs with a gentle but unyielding touch, my eyes locked on hers.
Her gaze is dark now, molten, wild with something unspoken, and she doesn’t look away—not even for a second.
She’s bare beneath the silk, her skin glistening in the dim flicker of candlelight.
I groan, low and raw, the sound escaping before I can stop it.
My mouth finds her, tongue parting her folds with a slow, deliberate stroke, licking up the full length of her clit.
Her gasp is sharp, thighs twitching under my grip, her body responding like it’s been waiting for me forever.
I drag my tongue through her again, deeper, savoring the slick heat, the musky warmth that floods my senses.
Then I close my lips around her clit, sucking gently, holding her there as her hips jerk and a ragged moan spills from her throat.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling now, the sharp sting grounding me as her taste coats my tongue—sweet, salty, intoxicating.
I feel the pulse of her, the heat radiating from her core, her breath hitching like she’s chasing something just out of reach.
I slide one arm under her thigh, hooking it behind her knee to spread her wider, her pussy opening to me like ripe fruit, flushed and soaked, her clit swollen and gleaming.
I lower my mouth again, flattening my tongue against her in a slow, firm stroke, then swirling tight circles that make her cry out—a sound that cracks through the air and buries itself in my spine.
Her thighs tremble, her heel dragging across the sheets as she opens herself further, greedy, unashamed.
I close my eyes and lose myself in her, learning her with every flick and stroke.
Her breathing fractures, stuttering with each shift in rhythm—soft flicks that make her gasp, rougher strokes that draw curses from her lips.
I want to know her completely—what makes her shudder, what makes her break, what makes her beg.
I want her ruined for anyone else’s touch, her body tuned to my mouth alone.
Her hips lift, grinding against my tongue, chasing the pressure, and I let her move, loosening my grip just enough to give her control.
Then I slide two fingers into her, slow and deliberate, feeling the tight, wet clutch of her cunt pulling me in.
She moans—louder, raw—and I feel her pulse around me, her body trembling as I curl my fingers toward that soft, spongy spot inside her.
Her sob is choked, desperate, her thighs snapping tight around my head, trapping me in her heat.
I suck harder, my tongue stroking in time with my fingers, curling them just right as her moans splinter into high, stuttering whimpers.
She’s teetering on the edge, her body taut, and I press my mouth harder to her clit, relentless, sucking and stroking until she’s gasping, her cunt clenching around my fingers like a vise.
I pull back just enough to see her—her pussy slick and swollen, clit twitching, glistening with her arousal.
My fingers are drenched, coated in her, and I slide them out slowly, watching the wetness string between us.
I raise my hand to my mouth, sucking her taste off my fingers, groaning at the heat and salt that lingers on my tongue.
Her eyes widen, dark and unblinking, as I lower my hand again, pressing those same fingers back into her.
She jerks, back arching off the mattress, a cracked “Fuck” spilling from her lips as I slide deep, my knuckles dragging along her walls.
She’s so tight, clenching hard, her hips twitching with every curl of my fingers.
I lick her again, flattening my tongue over her clit while my fingers fuck her—hard, deep, twisting just enough to make her sob.
Her thighs shake violently, her hands scrabbling at the sheets, one reaching up to grip her own breast, squeezing as if she’s desperate to anchor herself.
Her moans are loud now, messy, unraveling into something primal.
She bucks against my mouth, and I don’t stop—sucking her clit, fingering her faster, the wet, filthy sound of it filling the room.
Her body tenses, that tight coil just before release, and I curl my fingers harder, rubbing that spot inside her as my tongue circles her clit in tight, relentless strokes.
She snaps. Her cunt clamps down on my fingers, spasming as she sobs, her release crashing through her in a hot, gushing wave. I feel it—her body shaking, thighs wet, pussy twitching as she collapses back, legs splayed, too wrecked to move.