Chapter Eighteen AURORA
Iwoke slowly, cocooned in the kind of warmth that felt dangerous. Black silk sheets clung to my bare skin like a lover’s hands, cool in some places, heated where my body had pressed against his all night.
The faint scent of Santino surrounded me. Dark spice, rain-soaked cedar, and that unmistakable masculine edge that made my pulse quicken even in sleep. For one hazy, treacherous second, I smiled.
My body ached in the most exquisite ways: a deep, delicious soreness between my thighs, faint bruises blooming on my hips like fingerprints claiming territory, the tender mark on my neck where his teeth had sunk in while he growled filthy promises against my skin.
I stretched lazily, muscles protesting with sweet satisfaction, my fingers trailing across the empty space beside me. The sheets were still slightly warm. He couldn’t have left long ago.
Part of me wanted to burrow deeper, to chase the ghost of his body and pretend this was normal. That waking up in the Devil’s bed felt like home.
Then my gaze drifted to the small marble trash can tucked beside the nightstand.
An unused condom, tied neatly and discarded, was sitting on top. Almost like he wanted me to see it.
The warmth evaporated. Ice flooded my veins, sharp and unforgiving.
I sat up, sheets pooling around my waist, heart stuttering in my chest. The room looked the same, same dim morning light filtering through heavy curtains, the massive four-poster bed dominating the space, the faint scent of sex still lingering in the air…
But everything felt different now.
My mind replayed every raw, broken word he’d snarled against my throat last night.
I’m going to pump this tight little cunt so full of my cum it leaks out of you for days. You’re getting bred tonight, Aurora. I’m knocking you up.
The way his hand had pressed possessively over my lower belly as he thrust deep, like he could will it into existence. The dark hunger in his eyes when he told me he’d keep me filled until I swelled with his child.
I had convinced myself it was just dirty talk. The kind of primal, obsessive kink a man like Santino Moretti wielded like a weapon, meant to unravel me, to make me beg, to blur the lines between fear and desire until I couldn’t tell which was which.
Men like him said things like that in the heat of the moment. It didn’t mean anything.
But he hadn’t worn protection. He lied to me.
Which meant the rest of it hadn’t been fantasy.
He meant it.
A baby. With Santino Moretti.
A child born into this world of blood debts, power plays, and endless violence.
A little boy or girl who would grow up knowing their father as the Devil, who would inherit enemies before they could even walk.
Forever wasn’t a vague threat anymore. It was a plan. A future he had already decided on.
My stomach twisted violently. I pressed a hand to my abdomen, half expecting to feel something already taking root.
Anger surged hot and sharp beneath the fear.
I wasn’t ready for plans. I wasn’t ready for forever.
I had barely processed being stolen from my own wedding, barely survived the way my body betrayed me every time he touched me. And now this?
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, ignoring the pleasant ache that reminded me exactly how thoroughly he had ruined me.
Yesterday’s clothes lay scattered on the floor. I dressed quickly, fingers fumbling with buttons, jaw clenched tight. No note. No message for him. Let him wake up to an empty bed and wonder.
The house was quiet as I moved through it like a shadow. Guards patrolled outside, but the interior felt eerily still. The motorcycle keys hung on a hook by the garage door. Arrogant, almost mocking. As if Santino believed I’d never dare take what was his.
I dared.
The garage door whispered open. I swung a leg over the sleek bike, heart pounding with defiance. The engine roared to life beneath me, a deep, rebellious thunder that vibrated through my bones. I didn’t look back as I tore out of the estate, tires spitting gravel.
Freedom tasted like salt air and adrenaline.
The coastal road unfurled before me, winding along cliffs where the sea crashed against rocks far below.
Wind whipped my dark hair into a wild tangle, stinging my cheeks and tearing tears from the corners of my eyes.
I leaned into the curves, the motorcycle responding like an extension of my body.
Powerful, responsive, mine for this stolen moment.
No guards in my mirrors. No Santino’s possessive gaze tracking my every breath. Just speed, sky, and the illusion of choice.
Laughter bubbled out of me, wild and sharp, swallowed by the wind. For the first time since that blood-stained altar, I felt alive. Not a captive. Not a bride. Not a pawn in someone else’s war. Just Aurora, running toward nothing and everything all at once.
Memories of last night flickered unwanted through my mind: Santino’s body moving over mine, the way he had denied me until I was sobbing, the raw possession in his voice as he filled me again and again. The way I had begged anyway.
My thighs clenched around the bike at the thought, a traitorous pulse of heat mixing with the anger still simmering in my chest.
Stupid girl. I should have known better.
The SUV appeared in my mirrors after twenty minutes. Close enough to notice, far enough that I could almost convince myself it was coincidence.
Tinted windows. Sleek model. Common enough on these roads, probably.
I pushed the bike faster, wind howling louder in my ears.
The car stayed with me.
At a small gas station where I pulled over for water and a moment to breathe, it idled across the lot. A man leaned against a pump, with dark hair, broad shoulders, nondescript clothes, and a hood pulled over.
His eyes flicked to me over his phone, too deliberate. Too long. My skin prickled.
I gunned the throttle and sped off.
He followed.
By the time I reached Nonna Rosa’s quiet neighborhood on the outskirts, my knuckles were bone-white on the grips.
The SUV had disappeared into side streets, but the crawling sensation of being watched clung to me like oil on skin. I killed the engine in front of the pale blue house, legs shaky as I dismounted.
Rosa opened the door before my fist could connect, her sharp, knowing eyes narrowing the instant they landed on me.
Flour dusted her black widow’s dress and the faded apron tied around her waist. The scent of espresso and warm vanilla drifted out, wrapping around me like an embrace I hadn’t realized I needed.
“Aurora,” she said, pulling me inside without hesitation or questions. “You look like trouble chased you all the way here, child.”
I forced a smile, brushing hair from my face. “Just needed some air. The house was… suffocating this morning.”
She studied me for a long beat, the kind of look that said she had raised two devils and wasn’t fooled by pretty deflections. But she didn’t press. Instead, she pressed an apron into my hands and steered me toward the kitchen where chaos reigned in the best possible way.
Gemma and Leone were already covered head to toe in cocoa powder, giggling as they “helped” stir a bowl far too big for them. Ladyfingers soaked in espresso lined trays. Mascarpone waited to be whipped into clouds.
“Hands are steadier when they’re busy,” Rosa declared, handing me a spatula. “Come. Make yourself useful.”
I lost myself in it. The rhythmic dipping of cookies. The steady whip of cream. Gemma’s sticky fingers stealing tastes and Leone’s dramatic declarations that he was the best baker in Italy.
Flour floated through the air like lazy snowflakes, catching in my hair and on my lashes. The kitchen smelled like vanilla, strong coffee, and home, the kind of home I had dreamed about in quiet moments before everything burned down.
Rosa worked beside me, her movements sure despite her age. As we layered the tiramisu, she began to speak, voice warm and rhythmic like an old song.
“Santino bit another boy over a toy truck when he was five,” she said with a soft chuckle. “Wouldn’t let go of the thing until the poor child was in tears. Angelo laughed so hard he fell backward into a puddle. Those two were inseparable terrors.”
She continued as we worked, each story painting a picture I had never seen.
Santino at twelve, jumping off a rooftop to impress a neighborhood girl, landing with a broken arm and crying not from pain but from Angelo’s endless teasing.
Suspended from school for fighting when someone spoke cruelly about his mother.
The way he used to hide his tears when Angelo got hurt, thinking no one noticed the twin who carried the weight of the other’s pain.
I paused, fingers sticky with mascarpone, staring at the half-assembled dessert.
Santo.
Not the Devil who had shot a man at my wedding.
Not the ruthless kingpin who had kidnapped me.
Just a boy who loved fiercely and broke things trying to protect what mattered. The stories settled somewhere soft and dangerously tender in my chest.
Rosa noticed my silence. She wiped her hands and turned to me, ancient eyes gentle but piercing. “You love him.”
The denial flew from my lips. “No.”
She laughed, soft and fond, patting my cheek.
“Stubborn. Just like him.” Then she pressed a worn, handwritten recipe card into my palm. It was the family tiramisu recipe, ink faded from years of use. “For you, cara. You’re exactly what that stubborn boy needs. Someone who sees the boy behind the devil mask.”
My throat tightened painfully. I didn’t know how to answer. She pulled me into a tight hug, surprisingly strong for her frame.
Before I left, she held my face between her hands. “Tell Santino about the man following you.”
I pulled back, shocked she’d noticed too. “I don’t want him locking me up again. Treating me like a prisoner.”
Rosa’s expression turned grave. “You think that boy will react calmly when he finds out?”
We both knew the answer. No. He wouldn’t.
The ride back started peacefully. Late afternoon light slanted golden through the trees lining the forested stretch of road.