All Chapters of BLOOD AND ROSES: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Isabella's POV A few seconds later, Damian let out a deep hiss and clutched my waist tightly, groaning as I shuddered from the intensity. And then I felt it, his hot discharge spilling inside me, thick and warm, coating me inside as his hips gave one final slow plunge. I bit my bottom lip and shivered as I felt his semen drip down my thigh, but I wasn't scared of getting pregnant, after all, we are married, although I could agree this wasn't the perfect time. I didn't have enough time to think about that before he lifted me up from his lap and placed or me one of the long sofas, then spread my legs apart and moved between them. My heart felt like it might burst when he leaned in towards me, placed both my legs beside him, and pressed his dick in me again against my moisture-dripping core. The pleasure I felt clouded everything. .....my thoughts, my revenge plans, my shame and my dignity. That night I wasn't even sure how many times Damian cummed inside me, but we persisted; we

Isabella’s POV The garden was quieter at night than the mansion ever was. Even the wind seemed to tread softly here, weaving through the roses as if afraid to disturb the stillness that hung in the air. Moonlight stretched over the stone path in ribbons of silver. The scent of the flowers—wild, heavy, intoxicating—clung to my skin until I could almost forget the walls behind me. Almost. Inside, the house was never truly asleep. It breathed. It watched. Somewhere in its marble lungs, guards shifted, servants whispered, and the memory of every secret it had swallowed echoed through its bones. But out here, for a few fragile minutes, it was just me. The cool air bit at my bare arms, but I didn’t go back inside. I needed the silence, the space to think—to remember who I was before my life was rewritten in gold and blood. The silk of my night robe brushed my ankles as I turned toward the fountain at the center of the garden. The water shimmered, disturbed only by the soft dri

The rain had stopped during the night, leaving the city washed clean. Morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Moretti mansion, pale and steady, like it was afraid to disturb the silence. For the first time in weeks, the house didn’t sound like it was holding its breath. No footsteps pacing the hall, no clipped orders echoing from the study. Only the faint hum of the heating and the soft rattle of cutlery from the kitchen. Isabella paused at the threshold of the dining room. Damian was already there, sleeves rolled, a mug of coffee in his hand. He looked almost ordinary in that half-light—no suit jacket, no mask of power. Just a man lost in thought. “Good morning,” she said carefully. He glanced up, and something eased in his face. “You’re awake early.” “I couldn’t sleep.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Neither could I.” He gestured toward the chair across from him. When she sat, the scent of fresh coffee reached her, rich and bitter. A small box wrapped

Isabella’s POV The world outside the mansion blurred beneath a grey drizzle, the kind that didn’t fall hard but soaked everything slowly. A fog clung to the gardens, wrapping the roses in pale ghosts. I sat by the window, tracing the droplets as they streaked down the glass, listening to the muffled hum of the city far below. The morning had passed quietly—too quietly. For days Damian had been… different. Softer. Measured. The same man, but moving as though something inside him had been carefully rewired. When the door opened, I didn’t need to turn to know it was him. The air itself seemed to shift with his presence. “You’re awake early,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle. I smiled faintly at the glass. “I couldn’t sleep.” He came to stand beside me, hands in his pockets. His reflection met mine in the window—two silhouettes blurred by the rain. “I’ve noticed that,” he said. “You’ve been restless lately.” “Perhaps because I’ve been thinking.” “About what?” I he

Damian's POV Rain streaked the windows as the car tore through midtown traffic, the city a blur of light and wet glass. Marco drove in silence, the wipers beating a steady rhythm. In the back seat, Isabella sat beside me, her hands tight in her lap. She had been quiet since the call, but now her voice broke through the hum of the engine. “Damian… please. We have to find her.” Her tone was steady, but her eyes betrayed her—wide, bright with fear. I had seen that look in hundreds of faces before, but never hers. It unsettled me more than it should have. “We will,” I said. “Marco’s already tracing her last movements.” “That’s not enough.” She turned toward me, desperation edging her composure. “You have people—connections. Use them.” I studied her profile in the passing neon. “You don’t have to remind me what resources I have.” “I’m not reminding you,” she whispered. “I’m begging you.” The words lodged somewhere deep in my chest. Begging. No one begged me anymore. They o