Amethyst hadn't spoken to him since the basement.
She'd stormed back to her room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame, her chest aching with adrenaline, anger, and something she didn't want to name.
Fear.
Curiosity.
Something… else.
She didn't know what disturbed her more—that he'd hurt a man without blinking, or that he'd done it to protect her.
Mine.
The word still rang in her head like a bell she couldn't unhear.
When a soft knock tapped on her door hours later, she expected one of the house staff, maybe a quiet summons back to the library.
It wasn't.
Luciano himself stood there, sharp and cold as ever, except now he'd changed—black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, no tie. More dangerous somehow, in a way she couldn't explain.
"Dinner," he said simply.
"I'm not hungry," she muttered, moving to close the door.
His hand shot out, stopping it. His voice dropped to a warning whisper. "You will come."
Her pulse spiked, but she lifted her chin and walked past him without a word.
They didn't speak as he led her to the grand dining hall—a room far too big for two people. The long table stretched endlessly, set with gleaming silverware, crystal glasses, and flickering candles.
It looked like a scene out of a gothic painting.
A single place setting waited at one end. He sat at the head. She sat beside him.
Silence stretched as staff served them in careful motions. She poked at her food, her appetite gone.
"Why am I really here?" she asked at last, voice quiet but sharp.
Luciano sipped his wine, his thumb grazing the rim of the glass. "I already told you."
"No, you told me my father owed you. You told me I'm a promise." She turned to him, locking her gaze onto his. "But why me? Out of all the things he could've given you—why his daughter?"
For the first time, Luciano's mask faltered.
Barely. But it did.
"I didn't ask for a thing," he said slowly, as if admitting something dangerous. "I told your father to pay his debt, however he chose."
"And he chose me."
He didn't deny it.
"Did you want me?" she whispered.
His jaw tightened. He set his wine down carefully, precisely. "I didn't expect you."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
His cold, unreadable eyes flicked over her like he was assessing a weapon. Or a weakness. She wasn't sure which.
"You've been on my radar for a long time, Amethyst," he said finally. "Long before your father gave you to me."
Her breath hitched. "What do you mean?"
Luciano's mouth curved, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "I know more about you than you think. Your school. Your friends. The way you argue when you're cornered. The way you cry when you think you're alone."
Her stomach twisted. "You've been watching me?"
"I've been protecting you," he corrected, his voice soft and dangerous. "You just didn't know it."
A cold shiver crept down her spine. How long had she been living in his shadow?
"Why?"
He leaned forward, his scent—woodsmoke, citrus, power—washing over her like a tide she couldn't fight. His voice dipped to a velvet murmur.
"Because something about you makes me reckless. Makes me forget how cold I'm supposed to be."
Her heart thudded painfully.
"I don't want to belong to you," she whispered.
"You already do," he said quietly, as if it was the simplest truth in the world. "But the real question, Amethyst… is how long until you stop fighting that?"
He rose, leaving his untouched dinner behind, and walked away without another word.
And she sat there, completely alone, except for the echo of her own pulse.