The music continued to play behind her as Ravenna slipped through the gilded doors of the ballroom, the melody fading into a distant murmur as the heavy oak closed behind her. The corridor stretched before her, a long gallery of marble and shadow, lined with portraits of ancestors whose cold eyes followed her every step. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of dust and old wood, the perfume of the ballroom replaced by something older, more somber.

Crystal sconces flickered along the walls, their light casting dancing shadows across the frescoed ceiling. The floor was polished marble, dark as obsidian, reflecting the glow of the flames like scattered stars. Somewhere, a clock was ticking—slow, measured, relentless. The sound echoed through the corridor like a heartbeat.

She walked slowly, her heels clicking against the stone, the sound sharp and lonely in the silence. The ivory silk of her gown whispered against her legs, the fabric cool and smooth. Her hands were trembling, she realized. She pressed them flat against her thighs, willing them to still.

She had needed to escape. Just for a moment. Just long enough to breathe.

The ballroom pressed in on her—the drag of their stares, the weight of their touches, the unyielding, crushing weight of their ownership. She needed breath. She needed distance. She needed to remind herself that she remained a being, a spirit confined within this fragile, hollow vessel.

She reached the end of the corridor and turned toward the powder room, her reflection flickering in the mirrors that lined the walls. She looked like a ghost—pale, hollow, her dark eyes rimmed with shadows that no amount of makeup could conceal. Her hair was still perfect, her gown still pristine, but inside, she was crumbling.

She pushed open the door to the powder room and stepped inside.

The powder room was a small sanctuary of marble and gold, the walls lined with mirrors that reflected her image a hundred times over. The air was cool and clean, carrying the faint scent of lavender and rosewater. She leaned against the marble counter, her hands gripping the edge, her head bowed.

She took a deep breath. Then another.

She could still feel their hands on her—Cassio's fingers pressed against her spine, Alessio's palm curved over her hip, Drago's dark eyes following her across the room. The touches lingered on her skin like brands, like scars that no one could see.

She closed her eyes. She let herself drift.

In her thoughts, she moved among the garden. The cypresses stood tall and somber, their long shadows reaching over the turf. The fountain murmured its quiet tune. The roses opened in crimson, deep as blood. She was solitary. She was unchained.

She opened her eyes and straightened her gown. She smoothed her hair. She fixed her mask.

And then she walked back into the corridor.

The corridor was empty when she stepped out, the silence pressing against her like a physical weight. The music from the ballroom was a distant murmur, muffled by the heavy doors. The sconces flickered, casting long shadows across the marble floor.

She walked slowly, her heels clicking against the stone. The portraits watched her pass—cold, painted eyes that seemed to follow her every movement. She kept her gaze forward, her spine straight, her expression serene.

And then she heard it. A footstep. Behind her.

She stopped. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Well, well," a voice drawled, low and amused. "There you are."

She turned slowly.

Drago stood at the end of the corridor, his silhouette dark against the flickering light. His black suit jacket was gone, discarded somewhere, leaving him in a white shirt that clung to the powerful lines of his chest and shoulders. The top buttons were undone, exposing the dark ink of the serpent coiled around his neck. His hair was mussed, his bangs falling across his forehead, and his dark eyes gleamed with something predatory.

He walked toward her, his steps slow, deliberate, the heels of his shoes echoing against the marble like a countdown.

"I was wondering where you'd gone," he said, his voice a low purr. "You disappeared so... suddenly."

She forced her voice to remain steady. "I needed the powder room."

"Did you?" He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was tall, broad, overpowering, and he loomed over her like a predator surveying its prey. "You were gone a long time. I was beginning to think you'd run away."

"I wouldn't dream of it," she said, her voice flat.

"No." He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch was soft, almost gentle, and it made her skin crawl. "You know better than that, don't you? You know there's nowhere to run."

She held his gaze, her expression blank. "Shouldn't you be dancing with Martina?"

His eyes flickered with something dark—amusement, perhaps, or irritation. Martina was his fiancée, a polished, gorgeous woman from a powerful family. She was the perfect match for the Moretti heir. She was also utterly irrelevant to him.

"Martina is dancing with someone else," he said, his voice dismissive. "She's not important right now."

"Your fiancée isn't important?"

"She's a business transaction," he said flatly. "You, on the other hand..."

His hand moved from her hair to her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and possessive.

"You're the one I wanted to find."

Before she could respond, he pulled her against him, his body hard and hot against hers. His hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. He was already moving, guiding her backward, away from the corridor and toward one of the suites that lined the gallery.

"Drago," she started, but he silenced her with a look.

"Don't," he said, his voice soft and dangerous. "Don't pretend you don't want this. You always want this. You just don't want to admit it."

He pushed open a door, revealing a small room—a study, by the looks of it, lined with bookshelves and dark wood paneling. He pulled her inside and closed the door behind them.

The lock clicked into place.

The room was warm, the fire casting dancing shadows across the walls. The scent of leather and old paper filled the air, mingling with the faint scent of his cologne.

Drago pressed her against the wall, the cool paneling seeping through the thin silk of her gown, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body. His hands found her waist, sliding up her sides, over the ivory silk. His fingers were rough, calloused, the hands of a man who had killed, and they left trails of fire across her skin.

"Look at you," he murmured, his dark eyes devouring her. "So beautiful."

He leaned in, his lips brushing the curve of her ear. "I could look at you all night. But I'd rather touch you."

His palms traveled across her form, claiming and insistent, following the sweep of her hips, the hollow of her waist, the rise of her chest beneath the silk. He handled her as though she belonged to him—and in truth, in every way that mattered, she did.

She closed her eyes and let herself drift again.

She had learned, long ago, that resistance was futile. That fighting only made it worse. That the only way to survive was to let go, to float above her body, to retreat to the garden in her mind where she was free.

Drago's hands moved to the back of her gown, his fingers tracing the low cut of the silk. His lips found her throat, hot and demanding, and she tilted her head back, offering him access. She could feel the tension in his body, the barely contained urgency beneath his controlled movements.

She understood that he was struggling to curb the impulse to rip her dress from her. The evening had not yet concluded. She was required to re-enter the ballroom. Yet that did not prevent him from seizing what he desired.

His mouth claimed hers—fierce, ruthless, devouring. His lips were bruising against hers, his teeth grazing her lower lip with a roughness that bordered on pain. She moaned into the kiss, the sound muffled by his mouth, and he responded by pressing her harder against the wall, his body trapping hers.

His hands found the hem of her gown, pushing the silk up her thighs. His fingers were rough against her skin, and she shivered, her body responding despite her mind's desperate retreat.

She could taste the whiskey on his tongue, sharp and bitter. She could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his shirt, the hard planes of his chest pressed against her softness. She could hear the low growl of his breathing, ragged and hungry.

He pulled back, just enough to look at her. His dark eyes glittered with satisfaction as he took in the sight of her—her lipstick smeared across her lips, her hair falling in disheveled waves around her face.

"There," he murmured, his voice thick with approval. "That's how you should look."

His mouth descended to her throat, his lips and teeth marking her skin as his hands pushed her gown higher. The silk pooled around her waist, exposing the pale expanse of her thighs, and he groaned against her skin at the sight of her.

The firelight caught the curve of her hip, the soft shadow between her legs, and his breath hitched. His fingers found the edge of her underwear, pulling it aside with practiced ease, and she felt the cool air against her most intimate flesh.

He pressed his body against her, the thick length of him straining against his trousers, and he ground against her slowly, deliberately, letting her feel the full weight of his desire.

"Feel that?" he breathed against her ear. "Feel what you do to me? You're the only one who makes me this hard."

She said nothing. She could not. Her voice had fled along with her will.

His hand moved between them, finding the front of his trousers. She heard the soft rasp of his zipper, the rustle of fabric, and then she felt him—bare and hot against her thigh, the head of him slick with anticipation.

He positioned himself at her entrance, the blunt pressure of him against her softness, and she braced herself. His cock was large—the largest of the four—and she felt a familiar flash of apprehension as she prepared for the stretch.

"Please," she whispered, the word escaping before she could stop it. "Slow down. Just a little—"

But he was already thrusting into her, sharp and abrupt, his body claiming hers with devastating force. The breath left her lungs in a choked gasp as he filled her, the stretch overwhelming, the sensation of him inside her so immense that she could barely breathe.

"Always so tight," he growled against her ear, his voice rough and thick with desire. "You never get used to it, do you? You always take me like you're being split open."

She could feel every inch of him, the thick length of him stretching her, filling her, claiming her from the inside out. The gas fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across their bodies, and she caught a glimpse of their reflection in the dark glass of a cabinet—his broad back, her small form pinned against the wall, his body moving against hers in a rhythm as old as time.

She buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as he began to move. His thrusts were hard, fast, relentless—like he was in a hurry, like he didn't have time to savor her.

"You feel so good around me," he breathed, his lips brushing her ear. "So wet. So perfect. You were made for this, Ravenna."

She closed her eyes, retreating further into herself. The garden was fading, the cypress trees blurring, the fountain growing silent. All she could feel was him—the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the relentless rhythm of his thrusts.

He pulled out almost all the way, leaving only the tip of him inside her, and she felt the cool air against her exposed flesh. Then he thrust back in, hard and deep, the impact sending a shockwave through her body. He did it again and again, each thrust forceful and brutal, and she felt her composure begin to slip.

"Look at you," he whispered, his voice a dark caress. "Taking all of me. You love this, don't you? You love being claimed. You love being filled."

She shook her head, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

"Don't lie," he growled, his hand gripping her hip, his fingers digging into her flesh. "I can feel how much you love it. You're so wet for me. So eager. You love being fucked."

He thrust deeper, if that was possible, and she gasped, her body arching against his.

"You're mine," he breathed against her ear. "All of you. This tight little cunt, this beautiful body, this broken soul. All mine."

She offered no reply. She could not. His words were searing into her, marking her, and she sensed herself drifting further from herself.

"Say it," he demanded, his pace quickening. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," she whispered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue.

"Louder," he commanded, his hand finding her throat, his fingers pressing lightly against her pulse. "Say it like you mean it."

"I'm yours," she repeated, her voice breaking on the last word.

A low laugh escaped him, dark and satisfied. "That's my girl."

His pace increased, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, more punishing. She could feel herself losing control, the pleasure cresting despite everything she tried to do to hold it back. Her body was his. It had always been his.

"You're going to come for me," he ordered, his voice a low growl. "I want to feel you shatter around me."

She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I can't—"

"You can," he insisted, his thumb pressing against her throat, just enough to make her gasp. "And you will. I won't stop until you do."

The pleasure was building, unrelenting, a wave that she could not hold back. His hand moved from her throat to between her legs, his thumb finding that sensitive pearl of flesh, and he pressed and circled in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he growled. "Now."

She shattered with a broken moan, her body clenching around him in waves of release. Her vision went white, her mind blank, and she clung to him as the pleasure washed through her.

He followed a moment later, his body stiffening against hers, his seed spilling into her in hot pulses. He groaned against her ear, his fingers tightening on her hip, and she felt the warmth of him deep inside her.

He held himself inside her for a long moment, his body pressed against hers, his breathing ragged and uneven. Then he kissed her again, rough and merciless, claiming her mouth one last time.

He pulled out, letting her slide down the wall to crumple on the floor. His seed dripped from her thighs, staining the carpet beneath her. She was gasping, weeping, her body trembling with aftershocks.

He fixed his trousers, his movements casual and unhurried. He cast his gaze down at her, surveying the image of her sprawled and undone upon the floor—her dress gathered about her hips, her hair wild, her lip color smudged, his seed trailing from her.

"Clean yourself up and come back to the hall," he ordered, his voice flat. "Don't keep me waiting."

He smirked—a cold, satisfied smirk—and opened the door. He stepped out into the corridor, leaving her alone in the dim, firelit room.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The silence pressed against her like a shroud. She lay there, her body trembling, her tears soaking into the carpet.

She could feel him inside her still—the ghost of his presence, the ache of his possession. She could feel his seed leaking from her, warm and wet against her thighs. She could feel the bruises forming where his fingers had gripped her hips.

She stopped sobbing. She could not afford to cry. There was no time. There was no one coming to save her.

She gathered her strength. She pushed herself up, her legs shaking, the muscles quivering with the effort. The carpet was damp beneath her, stained with evidence of her violation.

She found a box of tissues on a side table—a miracle, perhaps, or just the luck of a well-stocked room. She cleaned herself as best she could, the tissues rough against her sensitive skin, his seed smearing across her thighs.

She pulled up her underwear, the fabric cold and damp against her skin. She smoothed down her gown, the silk falling into place like a shield. She walked to the small washroom attached to the room, her legs wobbling beneath her.

The mirror reflected a stranger. Her hair was a wild mess, dark waves tumbling around her face in disheveled disarray. Her lipstick was smeared beyond repair, staining the corners of her mouth. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes red-rimmed, her lashes clumped with tears.

She reached into her small purse and pulled out a compact, the familiar routine grounding her. Her hands trembled as she fixed her makeup, wiping away the smeared lipstick and applying a fresh coat. She brushed her hair with her fingers, smoothing the tangles until it fell in soft waves around her face. She pinched her cheeks to bring back some color, to hide the pallor of her skin.

She looked like herself again. The porcelain doll. The perfect princess.

But inside, she was crumbling.

She took a deep breath. She straightened her spine. She lifted her chin.

And she walked out into the corridor.