All Chapters of Blood Bound Vows: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

His thumb stroked my cheekbone, rough and tender at the same time. I felt the answer in my bones, in the liquid warmth that leaked from me onto his thigh. The words are not a choice. They are a truth carved into me by his hands, his mouth, his cock.“I’m yours,” I whispered, my voice cracked. “I’m your filthy, fucked-out queen. Your dripping, wet mess. Your Isidora.”His dark eyes softened, just a fraction. A gleam of satisfaction that’s deeper than any smirk. He nodded slowly, once. “You are.” He pulled me closer, my head tucked under his chin. The scent of him—sweat, sex, and power—filled my lungs. “Now, sleep.”It’s not a suggestion. It’s the final command of the night.My body obeyed instantly. The immense, aching exhaustion crashed over me like a physical wave. Every muscle was liquid lead. The throb between my legs was a constant, dull reminder of his possession. My ass ached where he spanked me. My breasts were tender. My hips were bruised from his grip. I was a canvas for him,

I still woke again later, not in terror or to be hurt this time, but instead because Dante moved next to me. The mattress sank slightly. His arm wrapped around my waist like his body reacted before his mind did. “You still here?” he murmured. “Yes.” “Good.” I smiled faintly at the ceiling. “That was not a question.” “No,” he said. “It was confirmation.” I faced him, slow and careful, still feeling, but no longer weak. His hand skimmed across my hip, warm and sturdy. Now entirely awake, eyes opened, he observed me like he would whenever he imagined that I might vanish if he blinked. "You look different," I said. He raised a brow. “Different how?” “Less armored,” I replied. “Like you forgot to put something back on.” “That only happens with you.” “That sounds dangerous.” “It is.” I moved closer and rested my head on his shoulder. “Then why do you continue it?” “I see you anyway,” he said. “Armor, armor or not.” I traced just a minute line slowly along his chest with my fingertip,

They did not declare the rehearsal dinner. No invitations would be sent out weeks in advance, and no public venue would be explained to anyone who did not already know how to listen closely. It lived as did every part of Dante’s world. By implication. By loyalty. By warning. I found out where it would be only hours before we left. “You trust me,” Dante said, adjusting the cuff of his jacket with the calm he would muster in meetings that have rearranged whole territories. “I do,” I replied. And I meant it. The restaurant was perched above the river, old stone and glass, and the sort of place that pretended to be neutral ground, though, when it had its own memories of every negotiation ever said under its chandeliers. Guards were lurking in the shadows. Not obvious. Not hidden. Quietly moving, always rotating, and always watching. As I stepped out of the car, the weight of the ring on my finger felt different from what it had that morning. Public. Inside, conversations softened. Eyes

The officiant waited. I could feel it in the breath that was held in the room, in the rustle of fabric and the faint click of a camera being steadied. Dante was still holding my hands. His thumbs were resting on my knuckles, warm and steady, like he was tethering himself through me. A ripple went through the guests, faint but charged. Dante did not move immediately. He leaned over so closely I could hear him only. “Are you steady?” he asked. “Yes,” I whispered. “Say it again.” “Yes.” His fingers gripped my waist, tightened more sharply. Not rough. Not gentle. Present. “Look at me,” he murmured. I did. For a moment, the world shrank. No crowd. No ceremony. Just his eyes holding mine like this was something that we were doing together rather than the thing being done to us. Then he kissed me. It was careful. Measured. It was what it needed to be for the people who were watching. His lips pressed to mine, warm and firm, and lingered just long enough for the cameras to catch it.

The sound of the second shot was different. I had no idea how I knew that, just that my body reacted before my mind could. Dante’s grip on me tightened sharply, then loosened in a way that didn’t feel right. Too fast. Too heavy. “Dante,” I said. He did not answer. The third shot rang out, and Dante stumbled forward, his weight crashing into me. We fell together hard: my shoulder slamming into the marble, his body shielding mine by instinct even as it failed him. “Dante,” I screamed. Pain exploded through my arm as something hot splashed across my hand. Blood. Too much blood. “I’m fine,” he said, but his voice was strained and thin and lying. “You are not,” I said, already scrambling beneath him. Another shot shattered glass above us. People were still screaming, but the sound felt distant now, muffled by the rush of blood in my ears. “Stay down,” he ordered weakly. “No,” I said. “You are bleeding.” “I said stay down.” I ignored him. I hooked my arm under his shoulder, draggi