All Chapters of BLOOD AND ROSES: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

The night left its marks.Not on her skin—Damian had not bruised her, not in any way the eye could see—but inside her.Isabella woke before dawn, tangled in sheets that smelled of smoke and him. She sat up fast, her breath ragged, the memory slamming into her like a storm: his mouth on hers, the weight of his body pinning her, the way her heart had screamed to resist even as her body betrayed her.Her palms still tingled where they had pressed weakly against his chest. Her lips felt swollen, her thighs tender, her soul split in two.She stumbled out of bed, wrapping her robe tight, pacing the length of the room.What have I done?She pressed her fingers to her temple, shaking her head, as if she could scrub away the truth. She had wanted him. She had kissed him back.Her father’s face flashed in her mind—the man Damian had ruined. The man whose empire had fallen because of him. And yet she had lain beneath that same man, trembling with want, her breath tangled with his.The shame was

The mansion was never truly silent. Even at night, the house breathed—pipes groaned softly in the walls, guards shifted boots on gravel paths, and the old wood sighed as if remembering everything it had ever seen. But tonight, Isabella thought she had carved out a pocket of quiet for herself. She had crept down from her chamber after midnight, her silk robe tied snugly around her, slippers barely whispering against the polished floors. The corridors were dim, shadows stretching long under the faint glow of wall sconces. She held a book in her hand—a volume she had taken from Damian’s library earlier in the week, its gilt spine promising escape in printed words. The library was the only place she could breathe. Its high ceilings and towering shelves felt less like a prison and more like a refuge. The scent of old leather and ink reminded her of her father’s study, long ago, before everything shattered. Here, at least, she could pretend for a moment that she belonged to herself. Sh

The mansion at night was a different creature. By day, it hummed with footsteps and hushed voices, servants moving through its veins, Marco’s men shifting like shadows across marble floors. By night, though, it became something else. Vast. Watchful. Every creak of wood and sigh of the wind against the windows felt like an accusation. I sat at my vanity, the single flame of a candle throwing restless shapes across the walls. My brush lay discarded beside me; my hair hung loose, dark waves over my shoulders. My pulse thudded in my ears louder than the ticking of the clock. Tonight, I would stop waiting. Tonight, I would make my first true strike. For weeks, rebellion had been only a thought, a whisper, a careful tightening of my mask while I listened, learned, endured. But rebellion without action is nothing more than fantasy. If I wanted freedom—if I wanted justice—I needed allies. And there was only one man in this city reckless enough, wealthy enough, ambitious enough to help me.

The words clung to her like smoke. Risk everything, or nothing changes. For days they had echoed in Isabella’s head, a whisper buried beneath the daily theatre of smiles and silences. She wore her mask as perfectly as ever, but beneath the porcelain calm, Harrow’s warning gnawed at her. She could not stay here forever. Not in this mausoleum of marble and secrets, not in Damian’s cage, no matter how gilded. If she wanted to live, not just survive, she would have to see the world outside these walls. And she knew exactly where to begin. --- In her chamber, Isabella drew open the drawer of her vanity and pulled out the sketchbook she had hidden beneath silk scarves. The leather was worn, the pages smudged with charcoal and graphite. Her hands trembled as she flipped through it—shadows of her own hand staring back at her, drawings of flowers, of faces glimpsed once in passing, of the city skyline as she remembered it from her father’s terrace. She had not sketched since coming her

The morning after the study felt different—not lighter, but taut, stretched like the silence before thunder. Isabella sat at her vanity, brushing her hair with slow, steady strokes. The glass reflected a mask of serenity, but beneath it, her heart rattled like a caged bird. She had won something last night. Not freedom—not truly—but a crack in the marble, a sliver of light. University. Classes. A chance to see beyond the iron gates. But the leash had come knotted with it. Driver. Bodyguard. No campus living. She told herself a bird with clipped wings could still sing. Still fly, if only a little. The door opened. Marco filled the threshold, his presence quiet but immovable. “The Signore wishes to see you.” Her fingers tightened around the brush. Again. Always. Summoned. She rose smoothly, smoothing the silk of her morning gown, and followed. --- Damian’s study was bright with morning light this time, the curtains drawn back to let the sun fall across leather and book