Raven stood under the scalding shower in her private quarters, letting the water run red with the blood of seven dead Caruso men. The prisoner was already in the basement interrogation room, screaming answers that the Judge and the Phantom were methodically extracting. She should have been downstairs helping. Instead, she stayed under the spray until her skin turned pink and the tender reminder of earlier nights had faded to something she could almost ignore.

The first probe had been sloppy. Predictable. Exactly what she’d expected from Alessandro’s bruised ego after the Council session.

But the words he’d spat at the Eclipse Tower refused to leave her head.

"The order was signed the day you left for the hit. We planned to bury you whether you succeeded or failed."

Disposable.

She turned off the water and dressed in simple black silk sleep pants and a thin tank top. No bra. Bare feet. She strapped only one knife to her forearm — thin, razor-sharp, easy to conceal. Enough for what she had in mind.

The mansion was quiet at 2:47 a.m. Most of the staff had retired. The Guardians rotated shifts, but the war room was dark. Vincent’s private wing, however, would be lightly guarded. He trusted his security too much. Or perhaps he trusted her too little.

Raven moved through the corridors like the shadow she’d been trained to be. No cameras caught her — she’d memorized the blind spots during her first week here. She slipped past two external patrols using the same stealth that had once made Caruso captains call her untouchable.

Vincent’s bedroom door was unlocked.

Of course it was.

She eased it open without a sound and stepped inside.

Moonlight filtered through the half-drawn curtains, painting silver across the massive bed. Vincent lay on his back, one arm flung above his head, chest rising and falling in deep, even breaths. The black silk sheets pooled low at his hips, leaving the sculpted lines of his torso bare. He looked almost peaceful.

Almost.

Raven approached the bed on silent feet. She drew the knife from her forearm sheath and climbed onto the mattress, straddling his waist in one fluid motion.

The blade pressed cold and sharp against his throat, right over the carotid artery. One twitch and the king of the underworld would bleed out in his own bed.

Vincent’s eyes opened slowly. No panic. No sudden jolt. Just that dark gaze that always seemed to see straight through her.

He didn’t move.

"You shouldn’t sleep so deeply," Raven whispered. "Not with an assassin in your bed."

The corner of his mouth curved — unhurried, unafraid, like a man who had already decided he wasn’t going to die tonight.

"I sleep well," he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something darker, "because you’re the one guarding me now, wife."

The words landed hard. Raven pressed the blade a fraction deeper, just enough to draw a thin line of blood that trickled down the side of his neck.

"I could end this right now." Her voice was soft. "One cut and the De Luca empire loses its king. The Council would tear itself apart. Caruso would celebrate."

Vincent’s hands came up slowly, settling on her bare thighs where she straddled him. His thumbs stroked lazy circles against her skin. The silk pants suddenly felt too thin.

"You could," he agreed. "But you won’t. Not tonight."

His hips shifted beneath her — just enough for her to feel the growing hardness pressing against her. Something pulled low and insistent in response, against her will and her better judgment.

Raven’s breath caught. The rage and the wanting had wound themselves so tightly together she couldn’t find where one stopped and the other began. She hated that. Hated him for making it true.

"Why not?" She leaned closer. The knife never wavered. "Give me one reason I shouldn’t slit your throat and walk away." 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Vincent’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, taking in the way her thin tank top clung to her breasts. His voice dropped to that low, teasing register that always unraveled her.

"Because you’re trembling again, Raven. Not from fear. From want. Because every time you try to kill me, you end up aching instead. Because deep down, you’re starting to realize that the only place you truly belong now is right here — on top of me, with my ring on your finger and my cock buried inside you."

The crude words sent a pulse of heat through her. She rocked involuntarily against the hard line of him, a soft gasp escaping before she could stop it.

"Shut up," she hissed.

He chuckled. "Make me."

In a blur of movement, Vincent’s hand snapped up. He caught her wrist, twisting just enough to disarm her without hurting her. The knife clattered to the floor. Before she could react, he flipped them — pinning her beneath him, wrists trapped above her head in one strong hand.

Raven bucked against him, but he settled his weight between her spread thighs, pressing her into the mattress. The hard ridge of his cock ground against her through the thin layers of fabric.

"Get off me," she snarled, even as her hips rolled up to meet the pressure.

Vincent leaned down, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"You came here to kill me... and yet you’re soaking through your pants for the man you swear you hate." His free hand slid down her body, palming her breast through the tank top, thumb circling the stiff peak. "Tell me to stop and I will."

Raven bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. She should say it. She should fight harder. Instead, a broken sound escaped her when he pinched her nipple.

Vincent smiled against her neck. "That’s what I thought."

He released her wrists only to shove her tank top up, exposing her breasts to the cool air. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while his hand worked the other. Raven’s back arched off the bed, a moan tearing from her throat.

The need between her thighs had become a deep, unbearable ache.

Vincent kissed his way down her stomach, dragging her sleep pants and underwear off in one rough motion. He spread her thighs wide and looked at her.

"Look at you," he murmured, voice rough with hunger. "So fucking ready for your king even when you want me dead."

He lowered his head and dragged his tongue through her folds in one long, slow stroke. Raven cried out, fingers fisting the sheets. He didn’t tease. He devoured — licking, sucking, fucking her with his tongue while two thick fingers pushed inside her, curling against that spot that made stars explode behind her eyelids.

The orgasm hit her hard and fast. She came with a sharp cry, thighs clamping around his head. Vincent didn’t stop until she was shaking, oversensitive and gasping.

Only then did he rise, shoving his own pants down and freeing his cock. He notched himself at her entrance and pushed in with one powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

Raven gasped at the stretch. The ache flared bright, mixing pain with intense pleasure.

Vincent groaned, forehead dropping to hers. "So tight. So perfect."

He started moving — deep, relentless strokes. Raven met him thrust for thrust, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips. She tried to roll them again; he pinned her harder, driving into her with possessive force.

"You belong to me now." His voice was a growl against her mouth. "Not Caruso. Not the past. Mine."

The words pushed her over the edge again. She came a second time, clenching around him, crying out his name before she could stop herself. Vincent followed moments later, burying himself deep as he spilled inside her with a low, guttural groan.

For several long minutes, the only sounds were their ragged breathing.

Vincent finally pulled out and rolled to the side, dragging her against his chest. One arm banded around her waist, possessive even in the afterglow. His fingers traced idle patterns over her hip.

Raven lay there, body humming, mind spinning. The knife lay forgotten on the floor. The rage at Caruso still burned, but it no longer felt pure. Something warmer, darker, and far more terrifying was bleeding into it.

Vincent pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to her temple. "You keep trying to kill me," he murmured, voice lazy and satisfied. "And every time you end up exactly where you belong — in my bed, marked by me."

Raven closed her eyes, refusing to answer.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

Vincent tensed, then called out calmly, "What is it?"

Dante’s voice filtered through. "The prisoner talked. Caruso is planning something bigger. A real strike this time."

Vincent sighed — the sound carrying genuine weight, like a man who would have chosen differently if the war allowed it. He sat up, pulling the sheet over Raven’s bare form.

"Rest." His voice was quieter than usual. "Tomorrow we plan our counter."

As he dressed and moved toward the door, Raven watched the broad line of his back.

The knife still glinted on the floor.

She didn’t reach for it.

Not tonight.

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow the game would continue.