Page 45 of Chains of Recompense
And the humiliation.
Christ.
I replay it—waking up feeling warm, safe, held, only to find Raf’s hand on my breast, his body pressed into me like he was meant to be there.
And the traitorous thoughts that entered my mind before I could decide how best to handle the situation.
I shut my eyes briefly and let the coffee scald my tongue because I deserve the punishment for letting myself feel anything other than disgust.
I hear footsteps behind me, the sound of the door swinging open, and I brace for company.
Not him. Not now.
But when I finally dare to glance up, it’s not Raf.
It’s Evi Chiaroscuro.
I recognize her from the wedding yesterday, though I didn’t have time to say more than a handful of words to her in all the chaos.
She looks just as beautiful as she did dressed to the nines in formal wear, her hair pinned into a complex updo and makeup gracing her face.
Today, her face is washed clean, her chestnut hair tumbling over her shoulders in loose waves, soft cotton lounge pants and an oversized sweater hanging off her slender frame.
She looks obscenely cozy for someone living in an active war zone dressed up like a mansion.
The moment she sees me, her face lights up—like she’s genuinely happy I exist.
It’s a stark contrast to the kitchen staff, who continue to cast me sidelong glances like I’ve walked dog shit in on my shoes.
“Good morning!” Evi says, voice warm and musical as she crosses to the table. “I wasn’t expecting you to be up. First night sleeping here is always the hardest. New surroundings, weird sounds, nightmares…” She cuts herself off with a quick, awkward little laugh. “Not that you’ll have nightmares. I mean, hopefully not. Sandro and I still do sometimes, but it’s mostly just because of… well, everything.”
I stare at her, stunned by the easy honesty.
I don’t know whether she’s naïve, heartbreakingly open, or simply too exhausted to filter. Maybe all three.
“Hot chocolate for you,signora?” the woman who seems to be in charge of the kitchen offers, setting the steaming mug down as if she already knew the answer before asking the question.
Evi takes the mug, a warm smile gracing her lips. “Thank you, Isabelle,” she says gratefully.
The woman gives her hand an affectionate pat that makes me wonder how Evi has so thoroughly won over the kitchen staff, but before I have the chance to overthink it, Sandro’s wife has turned her attention back to me.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” she says, like being married off to a strategic enemy is the newest form of self-care.
I snort before I can stop myself. “Really? Because I think most people here would disagree.” I cast a sidelong glance toward Isabelle, noting the way her lips pinch into a disapproving pout.
Evi just shrugs, tightening both hands around her mug like it’s a lifeline. “Maybe. But I’m choosing to be optimistic. Sandro needs hope. We all do. And your marriage—this alliance—might be the thing that lets him stop fighting every single day.”
The hopeful earnestness in her voice makes something sharp twist under my ribs.
She truly believes in this plan, thinks that after one last battle, the fighting will be done.
But that’s never the case in our world.
To hide my cynicism, I raise an eyebrow. “You think this is going to end the conflict?”
“I think it could,” she replies softly. “I also think it’s the most generous thing your family could’ve offered—to bridge the gap, when it would’ve been easier to just… stay enemies.”
My laugh is quiet.
