Content/trigger warning: sexual assault/r*pe

"Signora! Signora, where are you?"

The plea sounded distant, but from Giovanna's vantage point sprawled on the ground and barely conscious, it very well could have been nearby. She tried to answer, but no sound left her lips. Touching her aching temple, she found a sticky, warm liquid trickling over her brow.

"Ow," she winced, the unexpected find enough to spur opening her eyes. The act took nearly all of her willpower, but it was just in time to see a man running toward her.

"Signora Rienzo, thank the Lord you are unhurt," the oarsman said as he kneeled next to her, erroneously calling her by her maiden name.

It was a forgivable offense; her nuptials had been both hasty and undisclosed. And although she felt nowhere near unhurt, Giovanna didn't correct him on either count. She was too happy to be assisted up, but even then, she wavered as the ground seemed to move beneath her.

"We must set off at once if we are to make it back to Venice before dark," said the man, picking up her discarded basket. It was now only halfway full, its contents strewn about at her feet.

"My herbs—" she objected, but he was already bending down.

"I will collect what I can."

She watched as he picked up the discarded berries, leaves, and mushrooms from among the brown detritus. The urgency in his actions wasn't for the fear of avoiding nightfall since men like him were expert navigators within the lagoon in any weather, day or night, but rather from the impending curfew that went with it. And as he gently handled the yellow caps of the galletti, Giovanna not only remembered the odd scene she encountered as she had originally picked them that led her there, but also why she didn't want to be caught in the dark.

The fox, the girl, and—most importantly—the scars on the child's arms were all odd, even while thinking about them after the fact. The strange feeling they all had given her in that moment was worse, and Giovanna was glad to have had escaped them. But who or what had interrupted, leading to her panicked retreat? She may never know. And it was probably better that way.

"That should do it," the oarsman said, holding the replenished basket in one hand and stretching out the other to Giovanna.

After taking one last look at the now empty clearing, they returned to the boat and travelled back to the islands. Thanks to the unique nature of rowing within the canals—Venetian oarsmen stood and faced forward to be able to better navigate the narrow passageways—Giovanna didn't have to look at her companion and had her thoughts to herself. She disembarked with a renewed sense of calm behind the church of San Polo and made it home just as the sun was setting below the horizon. As she scaled the steps to the top floor, she searched her pocket for the key to the loft, but after rounding the last corner, she stopped dead in her tracks.

"You?!" she exclaimed at the sight of Matteo Barozzi standing in front of the entry.

With his hands clasped behind his back, he cocked his head to the side and gave her a sly smile. "Were you expecting someone else?"

"I . . . I wasn't expecting anyone at all." She stammered, both angry at the boy for showing up, as well as at herself for not quite regretting it. But needing to keep him to his word of avoiding her even if he wasn't quite ready to do it himself, she pushed past him and stuck the key in the lock.

"You're bleeding," he observed, grabbing her arm gently and pivoting her to face him before she had a chance to turn the key.

She shook off his grip. "I am sure it looks worse than it is. Please, just let me—"

"I wanted to thank you."

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, and Giovanna stopped resisting.

"Thank me? I'm sure you did that last night," she said, moving the heavy basket from one arm to another as she suspiciously looked him up and down. Although the ground beneath her feet had stopped shifting, her injured head throbbed that much more. "There's no further need."

"I didn't, and there is," he answered with a smile.

Giovanna's heart thumped erratically, and she felt her face flush. She was now certain she had to duck inside for both of their benefits. "Well, if that is all—"

"It's not," he cut her off again, shaking his head. Pulling his hand out from behind his back, Matteo held out her father's medical bag. "There is also this. You had left it this morning."

If it was possible, Giovanna's cheeks reddened even more. Not only had she forgotten the bag at the Barozzi residence, she hadn't even noticed its absence all day. Her father would be furious, if he knew.

She reached for the bag, but Matteo snatched it away. "Your hands are already full. I will bring it inside for you," he said before pulling a kerchief out of his pocket. "But first, please allow me."

Before she could object, he began to gently dab the soft fabric along the side of her face, all the while his eyes never leaving his work. "Has foraging always been so dangerous?" he asked.

"There's a reason it's work given to women," Giovanna said, biting her bottom lip to keep from smiling.

Matteo wasn't as self-composed, letting out a hearty laugh at the brazen statement before turning serious again. "But are you quite sure that you feel well?" he asked, looking directly into her eyes.

Giovanna nodded, wanting less and less to leave his presence. It felt nice to be on the receiving end of such care. "I am sure, but I thank you for the kindness in asking," she said, relaxing her shoulders and letting her lids droop as his handkerchief continued its work along her cheek.

"No other substance can be so sweet; it gives life in its warmth and vigor. But take it away and with it goes the very nature of existence; a drop will save and also damn."

She looked up, confused by the curious statement. "What was that?"

"Oh, nothing of import," Matteo said, shaking his head as he folded the bloodied cloth. "I merely find myself inspired by verse on occasion."

"You're a poet, are you?" Giovanna asked with unmasked surprise.

Matteo shrugged with a smile. "I prefer to think of myself as a fellow of many talents."

"Most men do," she replied, expecting another chuckle at her attempt at levity.

To Giovanna's surprise, Matteo didn't react. There was no jovial retort nor a disappointed admonishment, not even an indifferent eye-roll. He merely stood uncomfortably close and stared, making her immediately regret the impertinence.

The sound of approaching footsteps on the stairs broke the silence.

Giovanna abruptly turned, bumping heads with Matteo who'd also jumped at the interruption. When she saw the young man dressed in a worn soldier's uniform holding a long gun in one hand and a large bag thrown over his shoulder, she shrieked with shock.

The soldier—several years older than Matteo, but shorter and more muscular—placed his belongings against the wall. Scratching his dark blonde, chin curtain beard, he smirked. "Well now, is this how you greet your husband?"

"Husband?" Matteo—who'd begun to position himself in front of Giovanna in a defensive move against the stranger—asked with unbridled surprise.

Although her heart was now beating even more fiercely, Giovanna quickly composed herself and pushed around the procurator's son to address the newcomer. "Forgive me, Stefano. I was not expecting you," she said with a forced smile, all the while fearing what he may have heard or seen.

Because as innocent as her interactions with Matteo had been, they were still beyond what a married woman should have allowed. Even if she had been left alone for two years without her husband to guide her, the freedom she had previously enjoyed was over. And now, Giovanna also found herself lamenting the truth behind Ottavia's earlier evaluation of her predicament. She had been lucky with his prolonged absence. Not only that, but she now realized that secretly she had wished that Stefano Visconti would fall in battle and never return.

Yet she should have known that eventually he would come back. With recent news of the Mantuan campaign's loss and the already noticeable trickle of the military back into Venice, she should have expected it sooner rather than later. And where else would Stefano have gone if not to her doorstep? They had no time to set up their own household before deployment. He had gone from his father's home to the infantry barracks and then straight to a field tent somewhere outside of Milan.

And now he was here.

Giovanna stopped in front of her husband and allowed him to embrace her. He smelled of sweat, smoke, and dirt, making it obvious that he had come directly from the battlefront. Although her back was turned to him, she could also feel Matteo's gaze at the same time boring a metaphorical hole right through her. She could only imagine his disgust at the scene. And even worse, his disgust with her.

The greeting ended up being short and by no means warm. As her husband released her, Giovanna instinctively took a step back. Before she could interject, Stefano moved toward the apartment. "I hope you have something edible in that basket for I am hungry and tired. Let us go inside," he said.

As he moved past her, Giovanna turned around and looked at Matteo in a shared moment of horror before throwing her body between Stefano and the door. "We cannot go in!"

Already looking gruffly at her, he drew his brows together even more. "Why ever not?"

"The air inside is foul. It must be cleansed," she said, raising her chin in an attempt to make her feeble excuse more believable. It was the best she could do without warning. Because there was no legitimate reason for her to keep Stefano out, but if he did go inside, he would find her ailing father. Even if he didn't immediately suspect the plague, he would soon enough. Then all she'd tried to hide from the world over the last few days would be uncovered.

Stefano laughed and pushed Giovanna out of the way. "Surely you jest. I can smell sage wafting out even now. There's been enough of the stuff burned inside to cleanse Venice twice over."

Unhindered, he turned the key in the lock. Before pushing the door open, he nodded toward his discarded bag. "Bring my things, then make me dinner," he said to Giovanna. Looking at Matteo who'd been practically rooted to his spot in the middle of the hallway, he gave a curt observation in farewell. "My wife's blood is on your chin, signore."

Entering the loft apartment, Stefano missed the final glance the two exchanged. While Giovanna's was meant to say help me, Matteo's only conveyed I must go.

Her heart sank at being left alone, but she could not fault him. A man had no business in interfering in another man's personal affairs. Stefano could do as he pleased when it came to her, and sadly, Giovanna knew it.

This knowledge made her both reluctant to do as he commanded, as well as fearful to refuse. Balancing his belongings, her basket, and her father's bag in her hands, she followed her husband inside where he'd already begun to look around. After easily inspecting the front half of the loft where a hearth for cooking and a large, wooden table that doubled as a work station along with a dining area stood, he moved toward the curtained off rear section.

"Do not . . .," Giovanna began the warning more agitated than she'd intended and trailed off to use a more measured tone. "Please. My father is sleeping, and he should not be disturbed."

Stefano dropped his hand from the fabric before he had a chance to peek behind it. "Your father?" he asked as he turned around. "If he's been here the entire time, what was that you had said about cleansing before we entered?"

"I . . . I had assumed he was still away," she lied. It was an act that had always made her uncomfortable for fear of being discovered. "But I can hear him snoring now, which means he needs his rest and must not be woken."

To her relief, Stefano nodded and moved away, slowly strolling toward a gable window. A warm, red glow from the dying sun filtered through the glass, casting shadows over his face as he looked over the city's rooftops.

The momentary reprieve gave Giovanna a chance to catch her breath and arrange her thoughts. She'd bought herself—and her father—a little time, but she still needed a longer term plan to keep Stefano away from him. If she could just keep her husband unaware until morning, perhaps she could convince him to rent a small room somewhere for just the two of them. The prospect of living a married life didn't appeal to her any more today than it did two years ago, but it was her duty to these men whom she was bound to by either blood or holy sacrament to serve and obey.

Her fate hadn't been Giovanna's choice, and the thought infuriated her. If she'd only been born a boy, she could now do as she pleased. And if she hadn't been forced to marry . . . well, she wouldn't have been left with only imagining how the rest of her conversation with Matteo would have gone before they'd been interrupted.

"I can make you a quick stew with these mushrooms. They're quite delicate and they couldn't be any fresher," she said, forcing her thoughts away from the procurator's son and onto the immediate matter of feeding the man standing at her window. Grabbing a handful of the galletti from the basket, she'd just placed them on the cutting board when Stefano moved.

"There's no hurry," he said, unbuckling his sword belt as he approached. "I've realized that I hunger for something other than what could come out of that pot."

Giovanna didn't need to hear any more to know what he meant. The wicked gleam in his eyes and the unmistakeable intonation in his voice were enough. And although she knew this moment would come eventually, she still hoped there could be a way to delay.

"You should wash and perhaps even rest—" she tried to object, focusing on slicing the yellow caps of the fragrant fungi, but Stefano's sudden grasp around her waist cut her off.

"No," he snapped before nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck. "It is you that I want."

Giovanna squeezed the handle of her knife until her fingers hurt. "Should we not wait to be alone?" she asked, forcing herself to sound more innocent than argumentative. "My father—"

Stefano kissed the skin at the base of her ear, making Giovanna unintentionally flinch. The reaction caused him to tighten his hold even more.

"Hold your tongue and your father will be none the wiser," he whispered into her ear while pushing one hand upward to cup her breast. "And the less you protest, the quicker it'll be."

Giovanna closed her eyes and let out a small whimper at the feel of his stiffening manhood against her back side. Knowing her objections were futile—and perhaps even counterproductive—she cleared her mind and prayed for the promised haste.

Noticing her surrender, Stefano loosened his hold, but only long enough to push Giovanna over. With one hand against her back to pin her face-first against the table, he used his other hand to lift her skirts. She choked back tears as he pawed around blindly to uncover her privates before wriggling to free himself from the confines of his pantaloons.

When he entered her, she yelped and instinctively squeezed her thighs together. But Stefano kicked her feet apart with his boot and pressed her down even harder against the table as he thrust himself against her from behind. The rhythmic thumping of the wooden table legs against the stone floor mixed with the slapping of naked skin against skin, masking Giovanna's muffled sobs. She clenched her jaws together so hard she was afraid her teeth would break, but the end still did not come.

The doctor sleeping behind the curtain coughed.

After a brief pause, Stefano resumed with even greater vigor once certain that Agostino hadn't awoken. When another fit began to ravage the doctor's lungs, Giovanna finally spoke up.

"Please, he sounds unwell. I must go—" she whispered, but Stefano cut her off.

"You must stay until I am finished," he growled into her ear while pushing her down even harder. Her breasts—crushed against the table—ached and she was losing sensation in her legs, but nothing hurt Giovanna more than having her father helplessly lie on the other side of the curtain listen to her ill treatment.

Yet she couldn't put up a struggle. Her husband was only taking what was rightly his, and even by his own admission, he wouldn't stop until he's had it. So Giovanna ignored her father's growing struggles for breath and prayed for some type of end.

A thunderous knocking on the door brought her salvation.

"Doge's guard, open at once!" yelled a man from the other side, making Giovanna raise her head and listen intently.

Stefano wasn't as bothered. "You've no business here, so leave at once," he shouted back without stopping.

Another round of knocking was followed first by the rattling of the door knob, then the forceful crash of a body against the wooden panel. The second such attempt knocked the door open, sending a part of the frame splintering in numerous directions.

"What is all this, signore?" Stefano asked, jumping back and scrambling to pull up his clothing. As he reached for his discarded sword, the tip of a guardsman's blade got to him first.

"You are hereby remanded into custody on the suspicion of desertion," said a second guardsman who'd just entered the loft. Behind him, Matteo stood; his face displayed both relief and anger.

"Desertion? That is absurd!" Stefano argued even as he was being dragged away. When he noticed Matteo, his tone got even wilder. "You! This is because of you, you bastard! I will find you and—"

Giovanna didn't hear the rest as her husband was taken away. Only then did Matteo enter the apartment, running to her as she'd finally righted herself.

"You . . . you came back," she sobbed, using all of her self-control not to throw herself into the safety of his arms.

"How could I not? I'm just sorry it couldn't have been any sooner," Matteo said, looking just as anxious to comfort her, but instead gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword. "But I must go. Find me tomorrow. Until then, you can rest easy."