The front doors crashed open below, echoing through the silent hall. I froze at the top of the staircase, heart slamming against my ribs. Boots pounded up the marble—his stride, uneven but furious. Luca was shouting something about stitches, about infection, but Rafaello wasn’t listening. Blood stained the front of his white shirt, seeping through the bandages. And then he saw me.

Standing there in nothing but his shirt, bare legs trembling in the draft. His eyes burned—dark, wounded, hungry. "Come down here," he growled, voice raw from pain and rage.

"You should be in bed," I said, gripping the railing. "You’re bleeding."

He took another step, hand pressing to his side. "Now, Sofia. Or I’ll carry you down."

I lifted my chin. "You can’t even stand straight. How will you punish me?"

A cruel smile twisted his lips. "Oh, tesoro, I don’t need to stand to break you."

And then he moved—fast, despite the wounds—and before I could scream, he was at the top, lifting me like I weighed nothing. "Put me down!" I kicked, but he only held tighter, one arm locked around my waist, the other clutching his side.

"You think this changes anything?" I spat as he carried me toward the bedroom. "You’re hurt. You’re not in control."

He threw me onto the bed, looming over me, blood on his hands, fire in his eyes. "I’ve always been in control. Tonight, you finally feel it."

His fingers gripped the hem of my shirt. "This ends now."

I should have run. I should have fought.

But I stayed.

And waited.