CHAPTER 3

By the start of the second week, Elian felt like he was fading away. The mansion was beautiful, but the air inside was thick with tension. Julian rarely spoke to him unless it was to remind him of his place, and Valentina had become a constant, poisonous presence.

It started with a sudden wave of nausea in the early morning.

Elian barely made it to the bathroom before he was sick. He leaned against the cold marble floor, gasping for air. His body felt weak, and his head was spinning. He thought maybe the medicine for his allergy had been too strong, or perhaps the kitchen was sending him spoiled food on Julian's orders.

When he finally stood up and looked in the mirror, he looked like a ghost. His skin was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

A sharp knock at the door made him flinch. "Julian?" he whispered, hope rising in his chest.

The door swung open, but it was Valentina. She was dressed in a silk robe that probably cost more than Elian’s life. She looked around the room with a look of pure disgust, her eyes stopping on Elian’s messy hair and trembling hands.

"You look disgusting," she said, her voice high and mean. "Julian told me you were sick. He thinks you're just trying to get attention. He’s out at the shooting range, by the way. He didn't even ask how you were before he left."

Elian gripped the edge of the sink. "What do you want, Valentina?"

"I want you to know that you are nothing," she said, stepping closer. She smelled of heavy roses. "Julian only married you to hurt your father. At night, when he's with me, he laughs about how pathetic you are. He calls you a 'pretty little mistake.'"

Elian flinched as if she had slapped him. "If he hates me so much, tell him to let me go."

"Oh, he won't do that," Valentina laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound. "He likes watching you suffer. It makes up for the fourteen hours he spent in that hole your father dug for him."

She walked over to the bed and sat on it, looking at the rumpled sheets. "I'm going to give him a son, Elian. A real heir. A boy with the Moretti name. You're just a Rossi. And everyone knows what happens to Rossis in this city."

She left the room, leaving her heavy perfume behind. Elian sank to the floor. He wanted to scream, but his throat was too tight.

Later that evening, Julian returned. He didn't come to check on Elian. He came because he wanted something. He walked into the room and saw Elian lying on the bed, curled into a ball.

"Get up," Julian said. "We have guests for dinner. You will dress in the suit I bought you. You will sit at my left side. You will not speak unless you are spoken to."

"Julian, I don't feel well," Elian said softly. "I think I’ve caught a fever."

Julian walked to the bed and grabbed Elian’s arm, pulling him upright. "I don't care if you're dying. You will play the part of the obedient husband tonight. The other families need to see that I have tamed a Rossi. Do you understand?"

Elian looked into Julian’s gray eyes. He saw no mercy there. "Yes, Julian."

The dinner was a nightmare. Elian sat at the long table, surrounded by men who looked like killers and women who looked like statues. Every time he looked at a plate of food, his stomach turned. The smell of the roasted meat made him want to gag.

"You aren't eating, Elian," one of the guests, an older man with a scarred face, said with a smile. "Is the Moretti food not good enough for a Rossi prince?"

Julian leaned back in his chair, his arm resting on the back of Elian’s seat. It looked like an affectionate gesture to the guests, but Elian could feel the pressure of Julian’s fingers digging into his shoulder.

"He’s just shy," Julian said, his voice smooth. "My husband is still learning how to behave in a house of kings."

The guests laughed. Elian felt a hot flush of shame creep up his neck. He reached for his wine glass, hoping a sip of water would settle his stomach, but his hand slipped. The glass shattered on the table, red wine splashing across the white cloth like blood.

The table went silent.

Julian’s face went dark. He didn't yell. He just looked at the mess, then at Elian. "Clean it up," he said quietly.

"I... I'm sorry," Elian whispered, reaching for a napkin.

"I said clean it up," Julian repeated, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "Use your hands. Now."

Elian knelt on the floor, picking up the sharp pieces of glass while the guests watched in silence. A piece of glass cut his thumb, and a drop of his own blood mixed with the wine. He felt tears stinging his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.

When he finished, Julian stood up. "Excuse us, gentlemen. My husband clearly needs a lesson in manners."

Julian dragged Elian out of the room and up the stairs. He threw him into their bedroom and slammed the door.

"You humiliated me!" Julian roared.

"It was an accident! I'm sick, Julian! Please, look at me!" Elian cried, holding his bleeding thumb.

Julian stepped into his space, his breath hot on Elian’s face. For a second, Elian thought Julian was going to hit him. But instead, Julian grabbed his waist and shoved him against the door.

"You think being sick saves you?" Julian hissed. "You think because you saved me ten years ago, I owe you something? You owe me everything. You owe me your blood, your breath, and your body."

Julian took him again, right there against the door. It was faster and angrier than the first time. He didn't care about the cut on Elian’s thumb or the way Elian was shaking. He wanted to punish Elian for the wine, for the dinner, and for the fact that every time he touched Elian, he felt a spark of something he didn't want to feel.

When Julian finished, he pushed Elian away. Elian slumped against the door, gasping for air.

"Stay here," Julian said, adjusting his tie. "I’m going back to the guests. Don't make another sound tonight."

After Julian left, Elian crawled to the bathroom. He threw up again, but this time, it was mostly bile. He sat on the floor, his hand resting on his lower stomach. The fluttering was stronger now. It felt like a tiny pulse, a secret heartbeat hidden under his skin.

He didn't know it yet, but the "sickness" wasn't a fever. It was the beginning of the end of the life he knew. He was carrying a Moretti heir, and in this house of wolves, that child was the only thing that might save him or be the reason Julian finally destroyed him.