VICIOUS DEVOTION

CHAPTER TWO : The infirmary

The private infirmary of the Asterian Palace was a contradiction—sterile white walls softened by antique chandeliers, modern medical equipment hidden behind carved oak cabinets. Serafina had designed it herself after her father's death. She refused to let anyone she loved bleed out in a cold, impersonal hospital room.

Tonight, that room held a stranger.

She stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, watching the unconscious boy breathe. Her driver had carried him up the servant's stairs—a winding, hidden path she'd used since childhood to escape tutors and tedious banquets. No one had seen them. No one would know.

This is insane, she thought. You are a Princess of Asteria. You do not drag wounded criminals into your private chambers.

But the blood on her hands said otherwise.

She had already stripped off his torn, blood-soaked shirt. The sight of his torso had made her pause—not from disgust, but from surprise. He was lean, corded with muscle, his skin mapped with scars and fresh ink. This was no "low-level runner." This was a soldier. A survivor. Someone who had taken blades before and lived.

Yet his face—gods, his face—was so young. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw softened by youth, dark lashes fanned against pale cheeks. He looked like a fallen angel.

Stop it, she snapped at herself. He's a criminal. He's trouble. You're stitching him up and sending him out the door.

She pulled on surgical gloves and approached the bed. The wound was deep—two inches below his ribs, angled upward. Clean. Precise. Almost surgical. A knife wound, not a bullet.

Someone wanted him dead, she noted. But they didn't want it to look like an execution.

She worked in silence, threading the needle, cleaning the wound with antiseptic that made him flinch even in unconsciousness. Her hands were steady. She had done this before—on guards, on servants, on herself after a failed assassination attempt three years ago.

The first stitch went in.

He didn't wake.

The second.

Nothing.

By the tenth stitch, his breathing had evened out. Color was slowly returning to his cheeks. She tied off the thread, smoothed a bandage over the wound, and stepped back.

He's going to live.

A strange, unwelcome relief flooded her chest.

She peeled off her gloves and tossed them in the biohazard bin. She should call her head of security. She should have the guards drag him to the dungeons for questioning. She should—

His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

Serafina froze.

His grip was iron. Even in unconsciousness, he held her like she was the only solid thing in a world that was spinning.

She looked down at his face. His eyes were still closed, but his lips moved, forming a single word.

"Angel..."

Her heart stuttered.

She should pull away. She should—

His grip tightened. And then, so softly she almost missed it, he whispered again.

"Don't leave me. Please."

Please.

That one word, whispered in a voice so broken it sounded like a prayer, cracked something inside her. She remembered her father, bleeding out on the palace steps, whispering the same thing to her before the light left his eyes.

She didn't pull away.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her wrist still caught in his grip, and watched him breathe.

What are you doing? a voice screamed in her head. He's a stranger. He's dangerous. He's—

But she didn't move.

She stayed.

---

Thirty minutes later, his eyes opened.

Serafina was dozing in the chair beside the bed—not asleep, never fully asleep in the presence of a stranger. She felt his gaze on her before she heard a sound.

She opened her eyes.

He was watching her.

His eyes were dark—not just brown, but the kind of black that seemed to swallow light. And they were fixed on her face with an intensity that made her spine straighten.

"Hey," he croaked, his voice raw. "You're real."

She arched an eyebrow. "You thought I was a hallucination?"

"A very pretty one." A weak smile tugged at his lips. "Figured I'd died and gone somewhere nice."

Serafina didn't smile. She leaned forward, her voice cool. "You're in the Asterian Palace. You were bleeding out in an alley. I saved your life. Now you're going to tell me who you are, why you were there, and who stabbed you."

He blinked slowly. Then he laughed—a low, rasping sound that made something flutter in her chest against her will.

"Bossy," he murmured. "I like that."

"Answer the question."

He shifted on the bed, wincing as the movement pulled at his stitches. "Name's Marco. I'm a runner for the Viscardi crew. Low-level. Grunt work. I saw something I shouldn't have, and my boss decided to make an example of me."

Serafina studied his face. He looked earnest. Vulnerable. His eyes were wide and guileless, like a puppy who'd been kicked.

But something prickled at the back of her neck. A warning. A whisper she couldn't quite hear.

"Marco," she repeated. "That's your name?"

"Yes, Your Highness." He dropped his gaze, suddenly shy. "I know I shouldn't be here. I know I'm nothing to someone like you. But—" He looked up, and his eyes shimmered with something that looked like tears. "Thank you. For saving me. No one's ever done anything like that for me before."

Damn it, she thought. He's young. He's scared. He's just a boy.

She pushed the warning aside.

"You'll stay here until you heal," she said, rising from the chair. "Then you'll leave. You'll forget you ever saw my face. If you speak of this to anyone, I'll have you executed for treason. Understood?"

He nodded quickly. "Yes, Your Highness. I understand. I—I swear, I'll be invisible. No one will know I was here."

"Good."

She turned to leave.

"Wait—" His voice stopped her.

She looked back.

He was sitting up slightly, one hand pressed to his bandaged ribs. His dark eyes burned with something she couldn't name.

"Your Highness," he said softly, "what's your name?"

She almost laughed. "You don't know?"

"I know who you are," he said quickly. "Everyone knows who you are. But—" He ducked his head, suddenly shy again. "I want to hear it from you. The name you prefer. Not the title."

Serafina stared at him.

He was ridiculous. Audacious. A common criminal asking for her first name like they were sharing tea in a garden.

But his eyes—those dark, bottomless eyes—were so earnest. So hungry for something she couldn't understand.

"Serafina," she said, against all logic. "My name is Serafina."

A slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face. Not the grateful smile of a rescued victim. Something deeper. Something that made her skin prickle with heat.

"Serafina," he repeated, tasting the syllables like they were honey. "Beautiful. It suits you, Angel."

"That's the last time you call me that."

"Probably not." He grinned—a flash of white teeth that was entirely too confident. "But I'll try to behave. For now."

She should have been furious. She should have ordered him to be silent.

Instead, she turned and walked out of the room—and she absolutely did not let herself notice the way his eyes followed her every step.

Behind her, in the silent infirmary, Dante Viscardi pressed his palm to the bandage over his heart and whispered to the empty room.

"Perfect. Absolutely perfect."