Chapter 30 - Gaetano
Gaetano
The walls of my castle are bursting with color for the first time in years—rich wine shades, subdued golds, ochres that pour over the stone like a waterfall of light.
Between them, the shadows of my harvests shift and drift, the veil of magic keeping them at bay.
They may whisper, try to catch a glimpse, but they can’t touch her—can’t even see her.
Nicole is meant for my eyes alone.
She sleeps in my bed. Her hair, like dark fire, spreads across the black sheets, and only the soft curve of her shoulder, the pulse in her throat, and the faint flutter of her lashes reveal that she’s flesh, not just a figment of my desire.
A single whiff of her scent is enough to reignite the hunger that has burned inside me since the day we met. It takes me back to how I once yearned for Madeline.
Then, I knew exactly what I craved: knowledge, power, magic.
This… I don’t understand. Maybe the odd pull is down to her soul, the spark I’m meant to drain and turn to shadow?
Unlikely. My insides revolt at the very thought of the contract’s end.
Maybe it’s a buried savior complex, because she reminds me of the trap I’d been caught in? The emotional trap, the one before the real shackles.
She stirs. Her lashes flutter, then she glances around, sensing she’s not alone. Her shoes are by the side of the bed, but her clothing remains on, rumpled under the covers.
Her focus drifts to the chair where I spent the entire night. “Where am I?”
“In my castle. I didn’t want you to be alone. And I can’t stay outside for long.”
She studies the ceiling next, observing every corner, then every wall.
“They’re not here,” I say. “I cast a shield they can’t cross.”
The words calm her. She pushes herself upright, frowning at her crumpled dress. Then her attention falls to the tray with water and bread I stole from the restaurant. She sips from the glass, her fingers trembling just enough to betray her.
“Teleportation to my castle is exhausting, especially the first time. You fainted. I let you rest.” I lean my elbow on the armrest. Rage pulses behind my temples at the memory of her father gripping her wrist like she was his property.
“I teleported us right in front of your father. He probably thinks he imagined it. That’s what men like him do when they can’t explain away their fear. ”
Her eyes drop to her fingers and a faint line furrows her brow. She must be worried about him. The thought jabs through me, stinging. Even so, I grip the armrest and say, “If you wish, I can take you home right now…”
She snaps her head up and, before I can predict what she’s about to do, she throws the covers aside and rises. Barefoot, she pads across the illusory soft carpet and reaches me.
She curls into my lap, not saying anything. Her arms loop around my neck, and she buries her face against my shoulder.
My heart skips a beat. My muscles tense—not from arousal, but from the sheer unexpectedness of this closeness.
Kneeling between her legs, holding her on the edge between pleasure and pain, owning every breath she takes…
that, I understand. But this—this intimacy—is entirely different.
Something I never even shared with Madeline.
She leans into me, moulding her body to mine. “Thank you,” she whispers in my ear. “No one’s ever saved me before.”
Her words hit harder than they should. I can’t recall the last time I “saved” anyone. For the past five centuries, all I’ve done is destroy.
My arms wrap around her like a shield. We stay like that for a long, undefined stretch of time. Her heartbeat vibrates against mine until we share the rhythm. The softness of her skin contrasts with my rune-marked hands that were not made for protection.
How the hell am I supposed to take her soul?
“Can I stay with you today?” she interrupts my thoughts.
* * *
While she freshens up in my bedroom, I transform the living room with illusions.
Rich, warm hues now dress the walls, broken only by the presence of paintings.
Some are simple landscapes from memories that the centuries haven’t managed to erase—a blooming magnolia in a field of skulls, a Venetian balcony overlooking the canal, the domes of Constantinople.
Others are replicas of masterpieces created by the hands of talented artists whose names Nicole would recognize.
The wall with tally marks I cover with an endless bookshelf—leather-bound tomes, spines embossed in gold. An illusion, a suggestion that knowledge matters more to me than gathering souls.
Beyond the window, a Persian garden appears, rose bushes, tulips, and jasmine intertwining in perfect symmetry. The ponds mirror the sky, and a gentle breeze stirs the grass.
In the middle of the room, a dark wood table emerges. A decanter of real wine stands there, along with the rest of the food I stole from the restaurant. It’s not a feast, but enough to feed us both.
The trophy library from my previous harvests turns into an invisible orchestra. The objects become instruments. Hidden by illusion, they produce soft, almost melancholic music that fills the space with tranquility.
The shadows stir at the sudden change. I cast a veil over the room and seal them out.
Nicole enters a moment later, dressed in her blue outfit and slim heels. With a curious expression, she wanders around the room. She pauses before some paintings, runs a finger along the spines of the books, and peers through the window.
I stand beside the table, motionless, warmth blooming in my chest. From the faint curve of her lips and the way her chin lifts, I gather she’s impressed. This is me—my art. I shape beauty with the same precision I use to carve nightmares.
Her attention slides from the window to me, then drops to the table. “Is this for me?”
“Only and entirely.”
I pull out her chair. She sits, her gaze never leaving me as I take the seat opposite her.
Her focus lingers on my face, pausing on my lips. “The Black Joker has made me dinner. What an unusual twist of fate,” she murmurs, her voice gentle yet tinged with that subtle, haughty edge so typical of the Little Baroness.
I smile, catching the faint tightening of her shoulders despite her composure. “Not exactly. I stole your parents’ dinner.”
She bursts into laughter that echoes off the walls, reaching even into the shadows beyond the veil. A moment later, she places a hand over her mouth, her expression sobering. “What am I going to do? My father won’t give up. Once he has decided to marry me off for profit…”
I absorb every nuance of her expression. In a week, none of this will matter. The thought slips through my mind, cold and clear.
Then her head lifts, and the force of her attention pins me in place. “Can I ask you something?”
I raise a hand in quiet permission.
“The second trial… How did you know all those things about my friends? What Boyana’s shoes looked like, how those people talk, and…everything else?”
My fingers close around the stem of my glass. “I didn’t. It was an ancient spell that used your own weaknesses against you. What you saw came from your subconscious. Thoughts you’ve had. Or maybe suspicions.”
“So… they didn’t actually say those things about me?” Her voice is quiet, seeking reassurance.
The question hangs in the air, fragile as a thread pulled too tight.
She doesn’t breathe. The faintest tremble flickers beneath her eye.
The truth sinks in slowly. I know what it’s like when those closest to you aim their arrows at your back.
It was one of the things that pushed me to act against Madeline.
“Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. We often sense the truth deep within. But we don’t always trust it. Or we choose not to.”
I sip my wine, letting the taste linger. Nicole follows suit, her focus still on me. With every passing second, the intensity of her presence fuels the fire within me.
“My turn to ask,” I say, about to voice a question I’ve never asked another soul because it never mattered. It doesn’t now, either, but I won’t find peace until I hear her answer. “Why did you summon the Black Joker?”
A crease forms between her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Years ago. With your friend Daria. What wish did you want me to grant?”
Heat coils under my skin. Maybe part of me hopes she’ll name a wish I could grant here and now. A way to redeem myself, however slightly, for what I’ll do to her in a week.
Her expression darkens, shadows gathering as though my words have cracked open a door she’s kept sealed too long. She drops her gaze to the table, fingers spinning the stem of her wineglass.
“I was a kid. Na?ve. Believed in love. In pure happiness. I wished…” She pauses, swallows hard, then exhales.
“My father had just started growing his business, and he was home less and less. My mother was hurting. She’d sit at the table alone at night, talk to herself, wait for him.
And when he was home, he mistreated her. Mistreated us both.”
Her voice is calm, almost devoid of emotion.
It’s in that evenness that something far colder resides: the habit of hiding pain.
Of holding it inside, so it turns into your poison.
“Sometimes I thought that if I were just a better daughter—more obedient, prettier, more successful… maybe he’d smile more. Or at least stop yelling.”
She looks at me not seeking pity. “That’s why I summoned the Black Joker. I wanted everything to fix itself somehow. To go back to how it was in that Christmas photo. The one you found in my drawer. The holidays before my father’s first big business deal succeeded.”
A weight settles in my chest. This isn’t the kind of bargain I’m used to. I know the hungry ones—the ones who crave power, vengeance, pain. This… this is a deeper kind of vulnerability.
Something I could never grant.