Chapter 2
Alina
Francesco crashed into me, his body slamming mine into the bed of hay as if trying to brand himself into my skin. His breath was ragged, dripping with hunger, his mouth grazing my ear.
“I love you, Alina,” he panted, voice thick with need. “I want to be with you forever.”
I wrapped my arms around him like a noose, dragging my nails down his back with a seductive hiss. My hips rose in rhythm, my moans tailored to his fantasies.
“Yes,” I whispered, arching beneath him. “Forever, Francesco. Always.”
Lies.
Sweet, poisonous lies he was too blind to see through.
Every word was a performance. Every gasp and whimper were crafted to feed his illusion while I drowned in loathing. I didn’t love him. I didn’t want him.
I just wanted it to end.
When he finally came with a soft grunt, trembling with release, I stared at the wooden beams above us, hollow and numb.
His weight crushed the air from my lungs, suffocating me in sweat and the stench of lust.
“Please,” I choked, voice barely a whisper. But he didn’t move. He was lost in the high of his delusion, wrapped in the fantasy that I had ever belonged to him.
I forced a satisfied sigh. “That was… incredible,” I said, the words like ash in my mouth. I pushed against him, gently at first, then harder, until his body finally rolled away, sinking into the hay beside me.
He turned to me, eyes glistening with fragile hope.
“I love you. I want to marry you… when the time is right. But I’m just a stable boy. Your father—he’d never accept someone like me.”
I smiled, syrup-sweet, concealing the rot festering beneath the surface.
Let him believe in love. Let him believe in forever.
It would make the betrayal all the more exquisite.
“I would love to marry you, my love,” I cooed, each word steeped in poison. “I’ll speak to my father. I’ll plead your case.”
His expression brightened like a dog handed scraps from the table.
“Oh, would you, amore?” he asked, resting his head on his hand like a dreaming boy. “I’ll do anything for you. I’ll find a way to provide, I promise.”
A voice bellowed from outside. “Francesco! Where are you?”
He sat up, fumbling to dress. “It’s the groomsman—I must go.” He leaned down, planting a quick kiss on my lips, entirely unaware of the performance he’d just played into. “May your talk with your father prove fruitful.”
I watched him scramble down the ladder like a loyal mutt.
“I’m on my way!” he shouted, disappearing into the dark.
I remained still in the hayloft, waiting for the voices below to vanish. Then—slowly—I reached down and clawed at my flesh.
Deep, red trails welled up beneath my nails as pain bloomed across my arms and chest. My breath hitched, my body trembling. But not from shame.
From purpose.
I scraped at my cheeks, dragging my nails until my skin throbbed with heat and stung with rage. I bit down on my lip, muffling the scream that clawed at my throat. With one hand, I ripped at my skirt, tearing it jagged and crude, then raked my fingers through my hair until the roots burned.
I would look unmade.
I would look ruined.
I descended the ladder with shallow, frantic breaths. The barn was hushed, shadows stretching long beneath the moonlight. I glanced around, watchful—no one in sight.
The air was thick with the smell of grass and damp soil. I darted through the darkness, but voices suddenly broke the stillness—male, rough, too close. My heart leaped. I froze, shrinking back against the barn wall like a ghost.
The voices faded. Silence returned.
I ran.
Tears pricked my eyes—not from fear, but from the hair I wrenched at mercilessly, twisting it into wild chaos. My skin burned, my lip bled. Good.
By the time I stumbled through the front doors, I was breathless, eyes wide with carefully crafted panic.
“Papa!” I screamed, broken and raw. “Oh, Papa!”
Footsteps thundered toward me.
“Lady Tocino!” Beatrice’s shriek pierced the air. “What on earth—what has happened to you?”
“Where is my father?” I sobbed, clutching Beatrice’s sleeve. “Something awful has happened!”
“He’s in the drawing room, sipping brandy. Come with me!” She seized my hand and pulled me along, our footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.
The drawing room opened before us like a sacred hall, opulent and imposing. High vaulted arches stretched heavenward, their gilded foliage catching the candlelight like divine fire. Each arch bore a Biblical painting—Eden, the Flood, the Last Supper—watching over the space with silent judgment.
Velvet-lined walls whispered wealth and power, embroidered with threads so fine they looked spun from gold.
Sconces flanked every few feet, casting a warm flicker across the space.
The scent of burning oak drifted from the limestone hearth at the room’s heart, carved with the Tocino coat of arms, proud and unyielding.
Beneath my feet, the family crest sprawled across an ornate, soft, and suffocating rug. Mahogany furniture gleamed with pastoral carvings—shepherds in fields, angels among mortals. Brocade cushions cradled every chair like thrones—everything, every inch, reeked of legacy.
Above the mantel, Papa’s portrait loomed, his painted eyes following me with cold precision. Regal. Eternal. Unforgiving.
And in the far corner, a harpsichord stood in silence, its keys like ivory teeth waiting to bite.
The room was perfect—a sanctuary of power, luxury, and silence.
And I—bloodied, torn, a tangle of deception—was its desecration.
Papa turned at the sound of my arrival. His face twisted into alarm, eyes widening as he dropped his glass.
“My child!” he thundered, rising from his seat.
I staggered forward, broken and trembling, the lie poised on my lips.
Let the performance begin.
“Oh, Papa!” I sobbed, hurling myself into his arms.
He caught me tightly, his embrace fierce. The heat of his fury seeped through his finely stitched coat, and I felt the tension in his chest, in his breath, in how his fingers clutched at me like he feared I might vanish.
“What happened to you?” he demanded. “Speak—now!”
“Make her go away!” I cried, pointing a shaking finger at Beatrice. “Please—I can’t say it in front of her!”
“Beatrice! Leave us!” he bellowed, the veins at his throat bulging like ropes under strain.
The housekeeper hesitated momentarily before scurrying out, her face pale with dread.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Papa seized me by the upper arms, his eyes boring into mine with a fury that could shatter glass.
“Tell me what happened, child. Tell me now.”
I lowered my gaze, my voice small and fragile. “I—I went for a walk. You know how I love the night air. I wandered near the fields when someone grabbed me and threw me to the ground.”
A pause.
“It was Francesco. The stable boy.” I let the words drip like venom. “And he… he—”
I drew in a breath, trembling—not from fear, but hesitation. Francesco had always been gentle. Too gentle. But lately, his sweetness had soured into something clingy… something dangerous.
“He tried to kiss me. I told him no. I fought him, but he was stronger. I couldn’t stop him.”
The lie fell from my lips like silk woven in shadow.
I saw his eyes then—Francesco’s kind, warm eyes—and guilt coiled like a serpent in my gut for a fleeting moment. I hesitated.
But Papa’s voice snapped the doubt from my bones.
“Did this boy harm you?” he asked, his voice low and lethal.
I shivered and nodded, eyes watering.
“Yes, Papa,” I whispered. “He defiled me.”
Then, with perfect precision, I wailed.
Papa froze, his anger solidifying into something colder. He released me, his face a storm waiting to break.
“This is unforgivable,” he said, his voice hushed with fury. “I will summon his father. Tonight.”
“No!” I gasped, quick to stop him. “He lives too far away. We must act now—before Francesco has a chance to run.”
I gritted my teeth beneath the mask of despair, the thrill of control quietly pulsing beneath my ribs.
Papa studied me—his suspicion flickering like a candle’s flame—but then his expression softened.
“Very well,” Papa said with finality. He drew me close, his arm tightening in a fierce, protective embrace. “You did well, my brave girl. I’m so proud of you.”
I buried my face in his chest, letting a few more tears fall—tears that now stung like acid.
As he exited the room, the silence he left behind was suffocating. Guilt curled through me like smoke, thick and acrid.
What had I done?
What would become of Francesco?
Time dragged on, thick and sluggish, like the air had turned to cold molasses. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, but its warmth couldn’t chase away the chill in my bones.
Then—footsteps.
Francesco entered, dragged in by Papa like an animal to slaughter. His eyes locked onto mine—wide, glassy, searching. He looked at me not with anger but with heartbreak. Hope.
“Did you tell him?” he asked, his voice fragile, desperate. “Did you tell your Papa that I want to marry you?”
Papa’s face morphed into something monstrous.
“You dare lay claim to my daughter,” he spat, “after defiling her? You are nothing but a filth-stained rat!”
Francesco dropped to his knees, tears streaking down his dirt-smudged cheeks.
“No, sir! That’s not what happened! It was… it was consensual! We love each other—please!”
But Papa was beyond reason.
With a roar, he seized Francesco by the collar and dragged him into the room, slamming the door behind them.
“You touched my daughter,” he accused, his voice shaking with barely leashed fury. “You think you can soil what's mine?”
Before Francesco could answer, a fist crashed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Blood sprayed from his lip as he staggered, but the man didn’t stop.
Another blow to the gut.
Francesco doubled over, coughing, but was yanked upright by the throat.
“She was innocent!” my father bellowed. “And you—filth in my stables—took her like a thief in the night!”