Chapter 18 Gaetano
Gaetano
She’s summoning me.
What a rarity!
My name hums through the invisible thread that binds us. I haven’t fully recharged, but curiosity gnaws at me. Has the Baroness decided to beg for a repeat of last night? I had hoped her stubbornness would pose a greater challenge.
The thought of a replay hits me hard, like a punch to the stomach. As if I hadn’t already spent the whole night restless with anticipation! That tempting ass, offered to me like a tribute, is an image that won’t leave my mind. I’ve no doubt her taste will be even more irresistible.
First, though, I plan to teach her that surrendering to me is not a punishment, but a reward.
A frown forms on my brow as I remember our time limit.
Today marks the end of the first trial. The riddle I gave her shouldn’t be too difficult for a mind like hers.
While rifling through her drawers, I uncovered a collection of academic certificates, a diploma with honors, and a university record filled with top grades.
However, the risk of failure always lingers. It would be a pity to claim her soul before I’ve had the chance to savor the rest.
I carve a portal and step through. I haven’t gathered enough energy to feed the wards around my fortress, but Madeline is unlikely to attack my chambers anyway.
Truth be told, the reason I persist in conjuring such defenses is my own obsessive suspicion that she’s watching me.
She probably hasn’t spared me a second thought in years.
Luckily, I think about her often enough for our enmity to endure.
Still, my stomach knots when I leave the castle unguarded.
The feeling dissolves the instant I see my Baroness.
Standing amidst some secluded woods, she’s striking in her bold black dress.
The towering treetops form a shaded canopy overhead, casting a cool, intimate gloom.
She clutches her handbag under one arm with an intensity that strikes me as odd.
There’s something in her energy that puts me on edge. Fear is not an emotion I associate with her. It’s what fuels me. Not merely the spells I cast, but the rhythm of my very heartbeat. I delight in provoking it in others, because it grants me a sense of control.
The Little Baroness resisted me at every turn this past week when I tried to evoke fear in her. But now, it seeps from her skin in invisible waves I can detect with every nerve. Oddly, instead of the satisfaction I expected, another feeling arises. A strange, protective pull.
I step forward and invade her space, relishing the shiver that runs through her body. “You summoned me, Nicole. In the middle of a forest?”
She doesn’t recoil, but her breath stutters. Is it the riddle’s answer that unsettles her?
“Are you angry?” Her chin lifts by the smallest margin—a rebellious gesture that stirs something primal inside me. As if she wants me to be angry.
My attention sweeps over the sleek black dress hugging her thighs, down to the towering heels so impractical for the woodland ground, and yet perfect on her. Nicole is a work of art. And I, master of illusion, hold true beauty in the highest regard.
“Are you trying to provoke me?” I ask.
Another pulse of fear grazes my senses. She folds her arms across her chest and presses the handbag between us like a fragile barrier. “You weren’t pleased last night when I summoned you.”
If that were said in a different tone, I would have considered it an innuendo. Or an invitation to spank her again. I’m not sure what her goal is here. Her words imply some kind of provocation, but her energy screams “fear.” Did I actually manage to scare her?
No, it definitely doesn’t give me the satisfaction I expected.
I step closer and sweep a silken strand of hair behind her ear.
Her eyes widen at the contact, but she doesn’t retreat.
“I’m starting to wonder…” My thumb brushes the curve of her ear, tracing the delicate tip.
“Is this your way of saying you’re ready to obey me and enjoy the privileges that come with it? ”
She blinks, frowning, her hands tightening around her purse. “Enjoy the privileges?”
Her red lips draw my gaze, flooding my mind with images—my mouth tracing their shape, my voice against them.
“I’m bound by the terms of our contract,” I murmur, “but I could make our time together… considerably more pleasurable.”
Then, whether intentionally or not, her tongue glides across her lower lip.
A small, maddening motion. Now that my hunger is no longer tinged with fury, resisting her is a far more brutal challenge.
I meant to test her, to make her wrestle with pride and restraint until she surrendered and confessed.
But those full, parted lips are enough to sway my resolve.
I lean in, one breath away from tasting her.
Her jaw tenses. “Is that what you did with Angelina? Made your time together more pleasant?”
I frown, stumped by the change in subject. “I have no idea who that is, Nicole.”
“Angelina! The girl who gave me the summoning spell. She vanished on her twenty-first birthday a few months ago. Lived in Siena. Her family’s still searching for her.”
Names tend to fade, but cities often linger.
Siena rises in my mind—sunlight like golden syrup spilling over the red brick of the Piazza del Campo, the scent of strong espresso wafting from tucked-away cafés.
A dark-haired woman with blue eyes darts between buildings.
It’s either me or them, I repeat to myself as I chase her.
I could teleport. I don’t. There’s no need.
Her defeat is inevitable. In the end, I had to claim her soul earlier.
Her mind couldn’t cope with my existence, let alone answer the first riddle.
“Ah. You mean one of my previous harvests.”
“She had a name!” Nicole’s words echo through the tall trees.
“I make an effort not to remember names.” It’s far simpler to count numbers than to recite a list of names.
Nicole’s energy shifts in an instant. The trembling threads of fear fade away, and invisible flames flare around her. “And mine? Will you forget that, too?”
When a person lives long enough, faces fade as easily as names and memories. But in the time that remains to me, hers will not slip away. “I doubt it,” I say.
Nicole clutches her bag. “I imagine you told Angelina the same thing. Just before you took her soul and cast her into oblivion.”
The fire still burns within her, but her voice falters. Is it jealousy or fear? Maybe both.
“I barely exchanged a word with Angelina beyond the formalities of our pact.”
Nicole squares her shoulder, her grip on the bag loosening a bit. “Why? Isn’t verbal manipulation part of your game?”
“Only when I’m faced with a truly exhilarating challenge. She was not one of them. The very first spell fractured her mind. I prefer not to waste time on those incapable of recognizing my brilliance.”
A brief laugh escapes her lips. “You think I appreciate it?”
“I believe you enjoy provoking me into giving you my best.”
My thumb glides under her chin, lifting it with a touch that’s both gentle and insistent.
She takes a breath and clutches her handbag as if it’s a lifeline.
For a moment, she seems unsure how to handle me.
I could close the distance in a blink. I want to.
But the joker in me urges restraint. I dare her to make the first move. I will make all the others.
A subtle vibration, followed by the trill of a modern ringtone, draws our attention to her handbag. Nicole’s gaze fixes on the sleek black leather, though she doesn’t attempt to retrieve the device.
“Aren’t you going to take it?” I ask. She shakes her head, prompting my frown to deepen.
“Please, don’t ignore your calls on my account,” I add, irked by this odd restraint.
The Baroness I know would have taken the call right in front of me, if only to demonstrate how unbothered she is by my presence.
Finally, she reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone without taking her eyes off me. “Yes, Mom,” she says, bringing it to her ear.
My hearing is sharp enough to catch every word filtering through the receiver, though the conversation itself holds little appeal. What draws me far more is Nicole—how tension etches across her jawline, how her lips press into a taut line, how the color in her irises deepens.
Then a sudden change. Her posture stiffens. Once the call ends, her focus drops to her bag, but she doesn’t put the phone away. When she raises her head at me again, her expression resembles that of a startled doe.
I suppress the urge to growl. I don’t enjoy drawing out her fear this way—not to such an extent.
“Deliberov died in the hospital,” she says.
“Was he someone close to you?”
She clears her throat. “The host of that gala. A business partner of my father’s…” Her lower lip begins to tremble. That unfamiliar protective instinct stirs in my chest once again. “He had a heart attack. Right after your stunt with the frozen statues. Was it your magic that killed him?”
I slip my hands into my pants pockets. “It’s possible.”
“Yes or no?”
“Magic is potent energy, Nicole. Occasionally, the weak of heart fail to withstand its presence.”
She digests my words with a pained look.
I move to close the gap between us, and this time, she allows it.
I pull her in, resting my chin atop her head.
The sweet scent of floral perfume rises from her hair, and I imagine burying my face in those fiery strands as I take her, her moans of pleasure echoing in my ears.
That craving intertwines with another, more human need. She feels so small, so defenseless in my arms, far from the polished facade of the Little Baroness she presents to the world. And for once—for right now—I wish to offer her comfort.
Too entranced by this unexpected feeling she has stirred in me, I ignore the movement between our bodies, her hands shifting.
When she pulls back—just to thrust forward again—I catch the glint of the blade in her fingers. Too late.
The knife slices through the thin fabric of my shirt and drives deep into my flesh.
At first, the sensation is a sharp pressure, but soon morphs into searing pain.
My fingers clamp around her wrists, my grip tightening with brute force, and a growl breaks from between my teeth.
A raw, slightly bitter scent floods my throat, mingling with the iron tang of my own blood.
My muscles lock into place, rigid with shock. Despite my physical advantage, I’m unable to throw Nicole off. She pushes with her full weight, forcing the blade deeper. More pain erupts. Fire spreads through my ribs. My lungs seize as if the very air has been stolen.
I try to tear the weapon from her grip, but my strength falters. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts. My knees give way, and I collapse onto the ground, staring at the Baroness.
Her eyeballs threaten to spill from their sockets, and her entire frame quivers. She hovers over me for a moment, breathing hard. Then she turns and vanishes.
I remain motionless, every nerve in my body throbbing with the weight of my growing weakness. Warm, sticky wetness spreads beneath me.
Damn it. Did she stab me with a poisoned blade?