Chapter Eight – Elaria
The way the fabric clings to my legs—too fine, too cool. I blink into the filtered morning light spilling through thick drapes. My heart stutters.
This isn’t my room.
I sit up too fast. The room tilts, and I press my palms to the mattress to steady myself. The bed beneath me is enormous—dark wood frame, iron accents, edges sharp enough to cut. The headboard is carved with something intricate and unyielding.
My pulse skips.
Where am I?
Then the door opens.
Not the main one—the one tucked off to the right, half-hidden behind an armoire carved with ivy and ravens.
Steam curls out.
And then—
Cassian Rivetti appears.
He steps through, towel in hand, dragging it through his hair. His torso is bare—rivulets of water trailing down lean muscle, skin sun-warm and taut. He wears only a pair of dark pants, loose but tailored, the kind that scream obscene wealth in the way they drape over his hips, expensive without saying a word.
My mouth goes dry.
My gaze falls on the tattoo stretched across the back of his left hand—it makes my stomach twist.
And then his eyes.
They catch mine and hold. His eyes flick, once, to the door.
Then back to me.
Oh.
Oh God.
He’s telling me to leave.
My face burns. I scramble, nearly tripping on the sheets as I slide out of the bed. My legs don’t feel like mine. I’m in a long shirt—my own—but I don’t remember putting it on. I don’t remember walking here. I don’t remember anything after…
After what?
I clutch the door frame for balance as I step into the hallway, heat blooming across my cheeks like shame.
The corridor is silent. Not cold, exactly—but heavy. Gilt-framed portraits watch from dark walls. There’s a vase of calla lilies on a lacquered table. A glass dish with silver keys. None of it is familiar.
How did I get here?
I blink hard, scanning the hallway for a clue, a ripple in memory. But it’s blank. Like something’s been scrubbed clean.
I turn once, just enough to glance back through the doorway.
He’s still standing there, towel now slung over his shoulders. Watching me.
And it hits me—
I slept in his bed.
Under his sheets, while he—what? Watched? Guarded? Carried me?
I press a palm to my temple.
The hallway stretches long and quiet, flanked by old-world paintings that seem to watch, their oil eyes flat with judgement. A carved clock ticks faintly in the distance. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I have to keep moving, before those grey eyes catch me again and I fall apart.
My hand skims a mahogany banister. I turn—and slam into a wall of muscle.
Lorenzo.
His fingers catch my arm before I fall back. His eyes flash—surprise, then something colder.
“Come with me,” he mutters, low and sharp, his eyes scanning the corridor like he expects to find someone eavesdropping.
“I—” My voice is paper-dry. He doesn't wait.
He pulls.
I stumble after him, breath catching as he takes the stairs two at a time. I try to keep up, but my bare feet slip against the polished steps. I nearly trip—he jerks me upright without looking back.
“Lorenzo—please—” My voice is barely above a whisper. He pulls me into a wide room—dimly lit, thick with velvet chairs and old smoke. A fire clicks in the hearth.
Allegra stands near the window.
Relief floods me so fast it makes my knees weak. She’s here.
She turns, her expression softening when she sees me. But before I can take a full step forward, Lorenzo shoves me toward her—not hard, but enough to make the point.
“If we’re going to protect her,” he growls, “then tell her she can’t go wandering around the house without permission.”
I flinch. Allegra’s eyebrows lift.
“What is this?” she asks me gently, stepping closer, her hands ghosting toward mine like she isn’t sure whether to touch me.
“I don’t…” I shake my head, heart thumping. “I don’t remember.”
Lorenzo lets out a short, humorless laugh, but it’s bitter, not amused. “Convenient.”
“It’s the truth.” I hear myself say it, but even to me it sounds thin. I press my fingers to my temple again, trying to force the memory forward, but all I get is static.
Allegra looks over her shoulder at Lorenzo.
“She won’t wander again,” she promises.
Lorenzo stares between us, jaw flexing. For a second, I think he might keep going—push harder, accuse me of lying. But then he nods once and turns on his heel.
The door closes behind him harder than necessary.
I sag. Allegra’s hand touches my elbow.
I don’t realize how tightly I’ve been holding myself until I start to unravel under her touch.
Without a word, she reaches into her coat. Something worn and leather-bound emerges, edges scuffed, the spine slightly cracked. The journal.
My father’s.
She holds it out to me.
“I told you I’d find it,” she says quietly.
I take it with both hands, cradling it like something fragile. Like it might shatter if I breathe wrong. “Thank you.” My voice is threadbare.
Allegra’s expression hardens, though not unkindly. “Don’t thank me. Just don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
I glance up, uncertain.
“I’m working to get you out of Australia,” she continues, her tone low but firm. “I’ve got my eyes on Italy. Maybe Russia. I’ve got friends who owe me favors. People who can keep you invisible.”
A pause. Her fingers twitch at her sides.
“But you need to keep your head down until then. No wandering.”
I nod. She studies my face a moment longer before finally turning toward the hallway.
She walks me to my room in silence.
As we reach my door, Allegra hesitates. Her hand grazes the frame, and for the first time, her voice softens—not with caution, but something close to compassion.
“I know this must be hard. Confusing. But in a few days, this will all be a dream.”
I clutch the journal to my chest. My mouth opens before I can stop it.
“What about my father?” The words slip out, cracked and small. “His body, I—”
It fractures something in me to say it. The image of his blood seeping into carpet flickers in my mind, followed by the awful silence after. Allegra doesn’t answer at first.
“They took his body,” she says finally. “I have no idea what they’ll do. I’m sorry.”
A sharp breath escapes me. I nod, barely, because if I say anything more, I’ll break.
She turns and walks away.
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing the quiet.
I let the journal slide from my arms onto the bed, then lower myself beside it, knees folding awkwardly. The sheets are still rumpled—his bed had felt warmer.
The journal creaks when I open it—leather stiff from age, or maybe just memory. My fingers hesitate at the edge of the first page, afraid of what I’ll find. Or not find.
There’s no letter. No explanation. Just a map.
Hand-drawn. Ink faded in places, smudged at the corners like it had been folded and reopened a hundred times.
I lean closer, brow furrowing. It's not a city map. Not exactly. There are no street names. No landmarks I recognize.
Curved lines snake along a coastline I can’t place, dotted with tiny handwritten notes in a shorthand I never learned. There are docks, maybe. Piers? Some marked with stars, others with slashes. A few names—“Portsea,” “Rosebud,” “Queenscliff”—but they mean nothing to me. Lines connect the marks like threads in a spider’s web, crisscrossing water and land with no clear pattern.
My fingers hover above the page.
What was he trying to show me?
What am I supposed to understand?
I flip to the next sheet—more of the same. Routes. Hidden paths, maybe? Smuggler trails? There’s a tiny drawing of what might be a warehouse. Or a tunnel. I can't tell.
I sit back, the journal resting heavy in my lap. It smells faintly of tobacco and old paper, like his coat used to.
The ache in my chest tightens. My eyes sting, but I don’t cry again.
I close the book, like if I shut it gently enough, it might make sense the next time I open it. My eyes fall shut, lids heavy from grief, from too many unanswered questions pressing in from every side.
Then the door crashes open.
I jerk upright, heart in my throat.
Allegra barrels into the room like a storm, her eyes wide, frantic. “Quickly,” she hisses, scanning the corners like she's expecting ghosts. “Under the bed!”
I don’t move.
“Now, Elaria.”
The urgency in her voice slices through my confusion, and I scramble down, journal clutched tight against my chest. Allegra drops beside me and pulls the dust ruffle back into place just as the door swings again.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, barely shaping the words through my shaking.
Allegra’s hand clamps over mine. “Shut up.”
Then—another door groans open.
The bathroom.
Followed by the creak of the closet hinges.
I can’t see them, but I hear everything. My breath is a fragile thing, held behind my ribs like a secret. The journal digs into my sternum, its corners sharp, grounding.
“Uncle, this is ridiculous,” Lorenzo snaps. His voice is sharp, angry. “Why would we give refuge to a Fontanesi?”
My stomach coils.
Another voice answers, older, colder. Calculating. “I have men who tell me she is here.”
“They’re lying,” Lorenzo replies. “Cassian would never take her in.”
“Why?” the older man sneers. “He was fucking her sister and insisted on getting married. He might want to play knight for his dead lover.”
A fist seems to close around my lungs.
Giovanna?
Cassian was—married to her?
No. That can’t be right.
But no one corrects him.
No one laughs like it’s a mistake.
My sister, the one whose perfume still clings to the edges of my memory, whose laughter I haven’t heard in years. Cassian… her Cassian?
My mind spins, but I stay still. Even now. Even when every part of me wants to scream.
“I assure you, Uncle,” Lorenzo says quickly, “none of that is happening. I had a woman over last night. In this very room. She just left, in fact. They must’ve misunderstood. Cassian knows the stakes—we can’t be linked to the Fontanesis.”
Another pause. Then: “I hope for your sake that you are speaking the truth. Even Cassian will not save you from my wrath.”
Bootsteps again—retreating.
They fade down the corridor. The silence that follows is long, stretched tight.
Allegra presses a hand to my shoulder before crawling backward. She lifts the bedskirt and gestures. “Come on.”
I slide out, every joint stiff, the journal still gripped tight in my arms. I sit on the edge of the bed, dazed. Everything feels off-center. The room blurs around the edges.
I lift my eyes to Allegra.
“Cassian was the man my sister married?”
She winces—just barely—but I see it.
“I know you have questions,” she says gently, crouching in front of me. “But could I ask you to trust me?”
My voice is brittle. “Do I have a choice?”
Allegra exhales softly and draws me into a hug. I don’t return it at first—my arms frozen at my sides—but then I lean, just a little. Her warmth anchors me.
“I’ll explain everything,” she promises. “Just not now. Please, stay in the room. Shut the door. Don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe.”
She pulls back, brushing a strand of hair from my face like I’m still a child.
Then she’s gone.
The journal lies where I dropped it on the bed. I undress. My shirt is damp with sweat and tension. My fingers tremble as I peel it off and let it fall to the floor. I step out of the rest piece by piece.
I walk naked through the dressing room. My reflection blurs in the mirror, pale and shadowed, a stranger with green eyes ringed in exhaustion. The crescent birthmark at the base of my neck stands out, flushed in the light. Like a symbol someone else carved into me.
The bathtub waits. The room is warm with steam curling from the surface. I climb in, easing down into the water until it kisses the hollow of my throat.
The heat bites at first, then swallows me whole.
My ears fill with the rush of water. My hair drifts around my face like weeds. I close my eyes.
Let it all go.
Let it—the pain hits.
It begins in my spine. A white-hot jolt that arches my back involuntarily. I try to rise, but I can’t. My body doesn’t listen. Muscles lock. Then seize.
I try to scream, nothing comes out. My vision goes black.
And then—
Cassian.
He’s there.
I’m sprawled across him, my legs open in the tub, and his fingers slide over me like a ritual—mannered, devastating. My body reacts before my mind can catch up. I cry out, the sound caught between pleasure and something deeper. Something I can’t name.
He kisses me—rough, full of need. My head lolls back, and he drinks from my mouth like it costs him something.
The tattoo on his hand brushes my ribs. He lifts me, shifts me, guides me to his lap.
I feel him beneath me—His fingers slide into my pussy, two of them, curling just right. My thighs twitch around his hips as the stretch makes me whimper, my cunt clenching like it’s trying to keep him in.
His palm grinds up against my clit as he thrusts, and my whole body jolts. I gasp, loud, open-mouthed, head tipping back as water sloshes around us. My nipples brush his chest.
He fucks me with his fingers like he owns me. Like this is just the beginning.
His other hand grips my ass, squeezing hard, pulling me tighter against him as he works me open. I can feel the thick length of his cock, hot and rigid beneath me, pressed right against the curve of my ass, twitching every time I moan.
My pussy’s soaked, slick not just from the water but from how badly I need more. His fingers are drenched with it, and when he drags his thumb up to circle my clit, I nearly fucking lose it.
My hips grind down. I ride his hand shamelessly, chasing that edge, that heat coiled tight in my gut. He leans in—mouth crushed to mine—tongue pushing deep as his fingers thrust harder. I groan into him, the sound swallowed by his mouth, by the desperate kiss that’s more bite than breath.
His teeth catch my lip. His fingers curl.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to pant against my cheek, forehead pressed to mine. Our breath is ragged, wet, tangled like everything else.
My pussy clamps around his fingers so tight it’s almost painful, and I ride it—every pulse, every wave, every fucking second—while he holds me there, mouth locked to mine like he’s drinking my orgasm from my throat.
His mouth stays on mine as his fingers keep moving inside me, relentless and deep. Every thrust makes my hips jolt, my breath stutter. The heel of his palm drags against my clit and I’m unraveling, legs beginning to tremble where they’re folded over his thighs.
My back arches. Water sloshes around us, spilling over the edge of the tub, but I barely register it. All I can feel is the wet glide of his fingers inside me, the swirl of his tongue against mine, the way his chest is rising beneath me.
My toes curl on the porcelain. My thighs twitch violently. I’m close again—too close—and I can’t stop the whimper that escapes against his mouth.
He pulls his hand from me.
I suck in a sharp breath, half in protest, half in need, but he’s already moving. Lifting me, repositioning me.
Water surges around us, strong hands gripping my hips and turning me in the cradle of the tub. My knees scrape gently against the slick porcelain as he maneuvers me forward, chest down, ass up, thighs spread between his. He leans over me from behind, the heavy drag of his cock sliding across the mess between my legs.
I freeze for a second, hands bracing against the warm, wet porcelain wall in front of me, breath caught in my throat.
Then he sinks into me. My pussy stretches around him, tight and slick, swallowing him inch by inch. My fingers claw at the edge of the tub. My whole body strains, thighs quivering as the length of him slides deeper, presses high and hard inside me until there’s nowhere left for him to go.
I hold on to the edge, nails biting porcelain. He’s fully inside me now. I feel him throb. The stretch is perfect. Too much and not enough all at once.
His hand finds my hip, grips it, then slides down to my lower belly—anchoring me, steadying me. His other hand is on my back, between my shoulder blades, holding me down while his cock pulses deep inside me.
He just breathes against my spine—heavy, hot—and I feel it all. The way his abs brush my back when he exhales. The way his thighs tremble slightly, bracketing mine in the water. The way his cock twitches inside me like it owns the space.
He drags out almost all the way, the thick ridge of him sliding against my inner walls, before pushing back in, deeper than before.
My mouth drops open, eyes fluttering shut. I groan—a raw, helpless sound—and push back on him instinctively, desperate for more.
He grips my hips harder. Thrusts again. My breath turns to panting gasps, echoing off the tile, each one syncopated with the wet slap of our bodies.
Water splashes, soaking the floor, sloshing over my thighs as his pace picks up. My breasts bounce softly beneath me, nipples brushing the cooling porcelain, but I barely feel it.
All I can feel is him.
The stretch. The heat. The way he fills me to the brink and doesn’t let me go. Each thrust is deeper, more claiming, driving me forward against the tub’s edge. My knees slide. My legs shake.
I try to brace, but he’s fucking me harder now, faster, breathless grunts vibrating in his chest as he leans over me again, mouth catching the nape of my neck.
His hand slides between my legs again, and the second his fingers find my clit, slick and swollen, I cry out.
The tension snaps.
My orgasm hits like a punch to the gut—violent, clenching, all-consuming. My pussy spasms around his cock, pulsing hard as he fucks me through it. My legs nearly give out, but he holds me in place, fucking me deeper, harder, until his breath hitches and his rhythm falters.
Then he slams in one final time, cock buried to the hilt, and I feel the hot pulse of him spilling inside me.
He pulls out of me, and the sensation is almost too much—his cock dragging wet and thick from my pussy, leaving me open, raw, throbbing. My body shudders. I can feel his cum already slipping out of me, warm and slick, sinking into the water around us.
I brace myself on shaking arms, panting hard, chest slick with sweat and steam. The porcelain under my palms is warm but cooling. My breasts sway with each shaky breath, nipples pebbling in the cooler air, tight and aching, brushing faintly against the tub’s curved edge.
Behind me, water shifts. He sinks down.
His hands spread me open, and the wet drag of his thumbs against my skin makes me jolt—too sensitive, too exposed. He holds me there anyway, and I feel the press of his face between my thighs a second before he plunges his head under the water.
His mouth closes over my pussy, and I choke on a moan.
The heat of it burns through the water, through me. His tongue licks into me with deep, searching strokes, almost reverent. I feel the soft, muscular flick of it as it drags through the wet mess he left behind, pushing it back into me, swirling it around my swollen entrance before plunging in again.
My legs shake. My thighs flex and tremble uncontrollably. My calves are cramping from the tension, knees scuffed red from the porcelain. The water rocks around us, small waves slapping against the side of the tub.
He moans into me—vibration hitting right against my clit—and I feel it echo all the way up my spine. My back arches. My skin prickles. I swear I can feel it in my nipples, in the curl of my toes, in my scalp. My whole body goes tight.
His tongue moves—lashing in tight, relentless circles around my clit, sucking, flicking, switching rhythms just as I start to chase one. My pussy clenches with each pass, begging, fluttering. His hands grip my hips hard, fingertips pressing into bone, keeping me still even as I writhe.
My breath won’t settle. My lungs are too tight. My arms are jelly but I can’t stop holding on, fingers slipping against the edge of the tub. The ache in my shoulders blooms, but it just mixes in with everything else—heat, pressure, the too-much-ness of it all.
My stomach tightens, muscles fluttering. My whole lower body pulses like it's begging to come. Sweat rolls down my ribs, collects at the crease of my hip. My nipples are so hard they ache, dragging against the tub with each shiver of my torso.
He lifts his head just long enough to inhale sharply—his breath brushing wet heat over my inner thigh—then he dives back in, tongue stiff. He fucks me with it, pushes inside my cunt deep and steady, then pulls out and drags it flat all the way to my clit.
That’s what shatters me.
My orgasm tears through my body like lightning lashing across a storm—my pussy clenching hard, spasming around nothing, my thighs snapping together around his head even as my body tries to pull away.
I cry out, mouth open, throat raw. I don’t hear myself. I only hear the rush of blood in my ears, the splash of water, the greedy sounds of him devouring me as I break.
Every muscle seizes. My calves lock. My stomach hollows, then convulses. My breasts are aching, nipples flushed and tight, bouncing with every spasm. My arms finally give out and I slide forward, forehead resting against the tub, every breath a gasp.
Still he licks me. Gentle now. Lingering.
Like he’s not done tasting what he’s taken from me.
And I’m still shaking.
I’m still bent over, catching my breath in shallow gasps, my skin flushed and trembling, when the water shifts beside me—soft at first, like a ripple with no source.
Then there’s a presence. A body.
I blink, still dazed, eyes dragging to the side. She’s just there.
Giovanna.
Naked, pale, glistening like she’s always belonged in this tub. Her body reclines against the curved edge beside me, knees pulled up and parted wide. Water beads along the smooth line of her thighs, trickles between the lips of her pussy—exposed, swollen, soaked.
She’s unreal.
Her nipples are peaked, her chest rising like she’s panting too. Her legs fall open farther, inviting, revealing.
Cassian isn’t near me anymore, he is with her
His head moves between her legs without hesitation, shoulders hunched, hands spreading her thighs wider as he licks her with the same hunger he devoured me. Like she’s just as real. Just as deserving of his mouth.
I freeze, water slick against my skin, cunt still throbbing from what he just did to me—but now my body responds all over again.
He licks her, tongue dragging flat and wide across her folds, up to her clit where he flicks and sucks with a filthy rhythm. Her hips shift under his mouth, soft and soundless, and I can hear the wet sounds of it—the obscene lap and slurp of his tongue working her open. The sound of her imagined moan echoes inside me.
My pussy clenches hard.
His jaw works, the muscles flexing under skin and water as he eats her like he’s starving—his mouth locked to her, tongue dipping inside, swirling, fucking. His hands grip her thighs hard enough to turn ghost-pale.
He moans into her.
My nipples tighten. My breath shortens again. I press my thighs together instinctively, but it does nothing to ease the heat, the pulsing need that’s already coiling again. Watching him—seeing his tongue slide up and circle her clit—makes me ache in ways I didn’t know I could still feel.
I’m panting now, trembling.
He licks her faster. His face is slick with water and phantom slick, chin glistening as he groans, tongue flattening against her again, relentless now, thrusting into her pussy and up to her clit with punishing strokes.
She doesn’t move. But I swear she’s breathing.
I swear I can feel her coming. And my body responds like it’s me.
I’m watching him pleasure—but I’m the one falling apart.
My thighs clench. My stomach knots. I gasp sharply, and my hips twitch forward like my body’s trying to crawl toward them, to be part of it again. I’m soaked with more than bathwater—my pussy throbs, aching, slick, desperate for his mouth again, or maybe hers.
His tongue flicks circles right over her clit.
And my orgasm builds in sympathy, a stolen climax rising in me like it’s wired through her.
My vision blurs.
And I come—hard—watching his tongue buried between her legs.
Then everything rips.
The water shatters into shards.
My spine seizes again—this time with agony. I scream, but it’s swallowed by wind.
I hit the ground.
Damp leaves scrape against my back. My limbs spasm, raw and disoriented. Bark bites into my shoulder. My knees buckle as I crawl forward, vomit rising in my throat, though nothing comes out.
I am in a forest
Wet earth clings to my knees. My breath rips out in ragged gasps, clouding the frigid air.
Then I see them.
A girl and a boy.
Sitting on a fallen log near a fire, holding hands like it’s a vow. Her dress is white. His back is straight, his head tilted toward hers. The curve of her jaw—Giovanna. Younger. Alive. The boy is Cassian. Hair longer, face gentler, but unmistakably him.
I open my mouth but no sound comes.
Behind them, two men move through the firelight. Chanting in a language I barely recognize. One holds a dagger. The other cradles a baby in his arms.
That’s when I see his face. My father.
My knees buckle, crashing into wet leaves. Pain flares through my shins and palms, but I barely feel it.
Oreste Fontanesi.
Alive.
His face lit by flame, gaunt but calm.
He’s looking at the fire like it’s sacred.
The baby in his arms doesn’t cry. Doesn’t move. The chanting grows louder.
I gasp.
I slam upright in the bathtub, water sloshing violently over the rim. I cough hard—choking on air and water and memory all at once. My chest heaves as I claw at the edge of the tub, trying to remember where I am, who I am.
And then it floods back.
The secret passageway.
The crest beneath the panel.
The altar.
The paintings.
Giovanna—her eyes. That last portrait.
The moment my hand touched the bloodstained stone.
The pain that tore through my body, the scream, the fire—
I look down at myself now, breath sawing out of me. And the pain hits me again as my body starts bucking.
Water floods my nose, my ears—God, my ears—and the pressure builds like a scream underwater. My body jerks again, harder, and my head smacks the edge of the tub.
Stars explode behind my eyes.
I try to breathe—stupid, instinctive—and suck in nothing but heat and pain. I gag, lungs spasming, throat raw as I inhale again by mistake. Water invades everything—mouth, sinuses, behind my eyes. My back arches, fingers curling like claws against the slick ceramic.