CHAPTER 23: A HAND FOR A HAND

Anneliese watched the man sitting before the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the book in his hands. Her thoughts wandered.

How did he know I was in the dungeon?

She was about to ask when a knock came at the door.

"Come in," Vincenzo said.

It was the butler. Without glancing at her, he turned toward the Lord. "Milord, the food is ready to be served."

"Hmm. Serve the food and leave," Vincenzo ordered, still not lifting his gaze from the book.

The butler quickly obeyed, setting the food before Anneliese and then exiting with a silent bow.

"Eat," came the calm command.

Anneliese hesitated. "Thank you... for rescuing me. And for... everything. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you."

At that, one corner of Vincenzo’s lips curled up faintly. But he said nothing.

She began eating hungrily. It was the first real food she’d had since yesterday noon, and she finished her porridge and juice in minutes. Still hungry, but too embarrassed to ask, she looked up with pursed lips.

Vincenzo noticed. "What?"

"I... want more food," she said, barely audible.

His lips twitched. "For a small body like yours, you have quite the appetite."

"It’s not like that! I haven’t eaten since yesterday!" she retorted defensively.

Without another word, he walked to the bed and pulled a silver chain near the headboard. Almost instantly, the butler reappeared.

"One more bowl of porridge. And a bowl of hot soup," Vincenzo ordered.

"Right away, Milord," the butler replied, bowing before vanishing again.

Anneliese devoured the second helping with the same eagerness. When she finally finished, a yawn escaped her lips.

Vincenzo stood and crossed the room to her. Gently lifting her into his arms, he placed her on the bed.

"I’m leaving. A maid will come. Let her tend to your wounds. Don’t wear the nightdress—it’ll press against the bruises. Sleep on your front for now."

Anneliese’s eyes narrowed, cautious. "No one else will enter the room while I’m asleep, right?"

"No," he said without hesitation. "No one else will come in."

Relief washed over her. She nodded.

A minute later, just as he promised, a maid arrived. Without speaking much, she brought a bowl filled with herbal paste and assisted Anneliese in removing her nightgown. Anneliese lay face-down on the bed as the maid applied the physician’s salve gently to the welts on her legs.

The moment the paste touched her wounds, a sharp sting made her flinch. But she didn’t complain.

The maid finished and bowed. "I will wait just outside, Milady. If you need anything, pull the chain by your bed."

"Thank you," Anneliese murmured.

The warmth of the fire, the soft pillow beneath her cheek, and the numbing effects of the paste lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

Far away, in the Sicilian Empire...

Gabriel finally returned home, his clothes still dusted with dungeon filth. He had just learned the girl had been taken—stolen—from his grip. Fury and unease warred in his chest.

Shrugging off his coat, he loosened his tie and went straight to the kitchen. Filling a glass with water, he took two large gulps—until he heard something.

A soft creak. A shift of air.

He frowned.

Setting the glass down, he moved toward the hall. Empty.

But just as he turned to ascend the stairs, a deep voice rang out behind him.

"Touching what’s mine... You’ve got nerve."

Gabriel whirled around.

A shadow sat on the living room couch. As the firelight flared, the man slowly turned his head.

Eyes red as embers locked with his own.

Gabriel’s breath caught in his throat. He knew that face. He had seen it beside the Envoy once. He dropped his gaze and bowed quickly.

"Lord Vincenzo! You—here? At this hour—it must be urgent, but I—I don’t know what you mean—"

"Oh, I think you do," Vincenzo interrupted, his tone almost calm. "No one touches what belongs to me. But not only did you look—you laid your filthy hands on her."

Gabriel’s heart began to pound.

She had been taken by the Kingdom’s soldiers. Versimoil. Of course. Now it made sense.

"Milord... there’s some misunderstanding. I never touched the girl! The Envoy ordered the whipping, not me. I—I only followed orders!"

Vincenzo stood.

Even that simple motion made Gabriel flinch backward.

A faint smirk played on the Lord’s lips.

"Don’t you think it’s rude," he said, voice slow, almost amused, "not to offer your guest a glass of water?"

Gabriel jumped at the chance. "Of course—of course, Milord. Forgive me!"

He scrambled into the kitchen but before he could return, Vincenzo himself appeared there.

With a trembling hand, Gabriel offered the glass, filled with water.

But instead of accepting it, Vincenzo raised his left hand—not for the drink, but to catch Gabriel’s wrist.

In one swift, unhesitating motion, he slammed the hand onto the marble counter. And with a flick of his other hand, a dagger appeared—its edge like ice.

The blade sliced clean through the man’s wrist.

A scream echoed through the hall as Gabriel fell to his knees, clutching his bleeding stump and sobbing, "Mercy—please, Milord, please!"

Vincenzo crouched beside him.

His smile returned—but it was sharp now. Cold.

"I don’t do sparing," came his deadly whisper.