Raffaele’s intervention had kept Dad’s rage at bay, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Dad could tell something was wrong, and deep down, he knew I had started it. His anger was simmering beneath the surface, waiting for a moment to erupt. I had been praying with everything in me that tonight would never come, but even I knew how futile that was. No prayer could stop what was inevitable, and even God seemed powerless against the forces pushing me toward this moment. The time had come. Time for me to go to the bedroom they had arranged for us. Time for me to face the nightmare I couldn’t escape—Raffaele taking what he believed was rightfully his. My virginity.

I had always imagined this moment would be my choice, shared with someone I loved, someone with whom this would feel meaningful, intimate, and real. Not like a cold business transaction. But that choice had been ripped away from me, and now, all I felt was dread.

During the ceremony, I wore a mask—a mask of strength and indifference. I had to, for Christina's sake. She needed me to be strong, needed my emotional support to get through this. So I pretended. I acted tough. But inside, I was crumbling. Terror twisted in my chest, suffocating me. I had to take light sedatives just to prevent a full-blown panic attack. I was barely holding on, teetering on the edge of sanity.

The thought of Raffaele forcing himself on me was enough to shatter me. The image of it churned in my mind, digging deep into my bones. I would have chosen physical torture over this any day. Anything would be better than the feeling of helplessness that came with being used. But I wouldn’t beg. I had learned long ago that begging did nothing. It hadn’t stopped my father from taking my mother. It hadn’t stopped him from hurting me either. The scars that marked my lower back were proof of that.

But more than anything, I was terrified for Christina. I couldn’t bear the thought of her going through something like this. If I had to, I would kill both these brothers and run, taking her with me, if I thought it would save us. But running would mean living in constant fear, always looking over our shoulders. That wasn’t a life I wanted for Christina—not unless I was certain these men would hurt us. For now, I had to stay. I had to endure.

Without waiting for Raffaele’s summons, I walked to the bathroom. I turned the water on and cranked it to scalding. I stood under the burning stream, letting it sear my skin, hoping the heat would numb the dread curling inside me. I stayed there as long as I could, but eventually, I had to face what was coming. I wrapped myself in a towel and pulled out the clothes my mother had chosen—a light pink nightgown with floral prints. It clung to my stomach, cutting high up on my thighs. If Christina wore it, it would’ve reached mid-thigh on her. I was only an inch taller, but somehow that inch made all the difference. Through the thin netting, the ends of my scars were visible.

I had suspected my mother would pull something like this, so I had brought an extra piece of clothing to tie around my waist, hoping to hide the worst of my scars. Raffaele would see them eventually, but for now, I needed that small illusion of control. It was the only thing I had left.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, Raffaele was seated in a chair next to the bed, his gaze slowly traveling from the top of my head down to my toes. I felt completely exposed, as if the flimsy nightgown I wore offered no protection at all. Every instinct screamed at me to run back into the bathroom, lock the door, and never come out. But the stubborn part of me wouldn’t allow it. I forced myself to meet his gaze, staring him down for a few moments before confidently walking to the other side of the bed and slipping under the covers. I turned my back to him, but I could still feel his eyes lingering on me, watching every move I made.

A few minutes passed, and then I heard the bathroom door shut. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. That’s when it hit me—he had been reading the tattoo on my back, clearly visible through the sheer fabric of my nightgown.

Neither my mother nor my father knew about the tattoo. I had gotten it done by a friend from the orphanage, the only person who ever spoke to me there.

"Il dolore ti rende solo più forte" was inked in bold letters across my back. Beneath it, in a nearly invisible font, were the words "Don't lose hope."

After what felt like an eternity, Raffaele emerged from the bathroom. I ignored him, desperately hoping that somehow he would find me so repulsive that he wouldn’t feel the need to consummate the marriage.

The bed dipped behind me as he lay down. I heard the soft rustling of sheets, and instinctively, I inched toward the edge of the bed, moving so far that I was practically about to fall off.

"You’re ignoring me." His voice cut through the silence, calm but firm. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

"Well spotted," I replied, managing to keep my voice steady.

"Turn around. Look at me." His command wasn’t harsh, but it held an undeniable authority.

Panic clawed at my chest, but I suppressed it, stubbornly refusing to obey. I tried to edge further away, but I had nowhere left to go. His hand shot out, wrapping around my waist and pulling me firmly against his chest. The heat from his body seeped through my thin nightgown, making my skin prickle.

"I don’t like being ignored or defied, leonessa," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

Slowly, I turned to face him, forcing my expression into a mask of indifference. I prayed he wouldn’t see the helplessness I was hiding beneath the surface.

His eyes remained locked on mine as he lifted my wrist between us.

"Who did this to you?" he asked, his voice low, snapping my attention to the bruise I had forgotten to cover. Damn it.

"That was my punishment for refusing to wear heels today," I said, my tone casual, as though it didn’t matter. The bruise itself didn’t bother me—it wasn’t exactly rare—but I didn’t like the idea of Raffaele seeing this part of me. I preferred him to see only the cold, untouchable exterior I worked so hard to maintain.

He hummed softly, considering my words.

"From today onwards, you are my wife. If anyone ever raises a hand against you, you will tell me. In return, I promise never to harm you. My duty is to protect you." His voice was steady, sincere. I searched his eyes for any sign of deception, but there was none. He meant it.

"Deal," I replied, though part of me remained wary.

As I glanced down, my eyes drifted to his chest. A large dragon tattoo stretched across his torso, its mouth open near his heart, flames spewing from it. Within the fire, in cursive, was his brother’s name, surrounded by swirling embers. Below the dragon was a skull, and smaller tattoos were scattered across his upper body and arms. I hadn’t realized he had tattoos; he was always so meticulously dressed in suits at public events.

"Already checking me out?" Raffaele asked, his voice detached, with a slight hint of mocking.

I rolled my eyes, pushing down the irrational flicker of panic his comment stirred. Without responding, I turned my back to him again, pulling the covers tighter around me.

"I won’t touch you without your consent. You have my word." His voice was barely a whisper, but in the stillness of the night, it sounded louder than anything.

My body relaxed, if only slightly, at his words.

Was this who he really was? Or was this an act to make breaking me even more entertaining?