CHAPTER 5: STAIN THE SHEET
845 Words
I thought it was all over. The ceremony, the humiliation, the cold weight of Alessio’s presence pressing against my soul.
But then came the madness.
The murmurs started first—hushed, approving whispers that coiled through the grand hall like venomous snakes. And then, from the gathering of DeLuca elders, they emerged—the women of the family, draped in their dark gowns, moving in unison like specters from a past era.
At the center was the eldest of them, her spine straight despite the weight of her years, her wrinkled face set in a knowing smile. She carried something—no, cradled it—as if it were sacred.
A sheet.
White. Unforgiving. Heavy with the weight of tradition and expectation.
My pulse pounded in my ears as she approached, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous silence. She turned to Alessio first, her sharp gaze assessing, before settling on me. The room held its breath.
“How sure are we,” she began, her voice slow, deliberate, “that the Morettis have not deceived us?”
My stomach twisted. I knew where this was going.
“There is no honor in allowing one of us to marry a woman who has already sold her body to other men.” She spat the words with disgust, turning to the audience. “Now, that would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”
A murmur of approval swept through the hall, a collective agreement steeped in archaic judgment.
“We DeLucas are known for our morals.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh. Morals? These people, these bloodthirsty men, these ruthless killers—claiming morality? The hypocrisy was almost comical.
But then she held the sheet out to me.
I barely heard the gasp that escaped my own lips as I saw it up close—stained, marred with dried blood, an ugly relic of all the women who had been forced to prove themselves before me. Disgust churned in my stomach.
Hygiene clearly wasn’t a concern for them.
My fingers curled, shaking. I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want any part of this.
Alessio stood unmoving beside me, his expression unreadable, his golden eyes sharp. I wanted to look at him, to search for a reaction, for something—anything—that could tell me he wasn’t entirely like them.
But he remained silent.
“I’m a virgin,” I scowled, my voice firm, despite the tremble threatening to seep through. “But even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t matter. It’s my body, and I get to do what I want with it.”
The old woman’s lips curled, her eyes gleaming with something sinister.
“You think so?”
A sharp, cold voice cut through the air.
“I own your body.”
Alessio.
The words slithered from his lips, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t looking at me. He didn’t need to. The weight of his claim wrapped around my throat like invisible chains, suffocating.
Tears burned at the back of my eyes. My hands clenched into fists. I wanted to scream, to lash out, to run—but there was nowhere to go. This was my reality now. My prison. My fate.
The ceremony was over. The transaction was complete.
I turned, catching my father’s expression—satisfaction. Relief. The look of a man who had finally freed himself from a debt, at the cost of his own daughter.
I hated him.
One by one, the guests began to disappear, retreating into the night, satisfied with the spectacle. Soon, the grand hall was nearly empty. Nearly.
“Don’t be too rough on her,” a voice murmured behind us.
Luca.
Alessio’s elder brother, the second in command, his presence the only warmth in this frozen nightmare. He placed a hand on Alessio’s shoulder, his voice calm, though his eyes held something else—pity, maybe. Or regret.
I swallowed hard.
Then he turned to me, offering a small smile—gentle, reassuring, fleeting. And then he, too, was gone.
Alessio moved before I could brace myself. His grip was iron around my wrist, yanking me forward. My heart slammed against my ribs as I stumbled into him, the sheet crumpling in my hands.
“Let’s go.”
His voice was low, rough, final.
He dragged me through the hall, through endless corridors of this cold, soulless mansion, past walls that had witnessed countless tragedies before mine. My pulse pounded in my throat. I could barely keep up, my feet struggling against the relentless force pulling me toward my fate.
His room.
His lair.
The doors loomed before us, tall and imposing. The moment they shut behind me, there would be no escape.
The elevator ride was silent, suffocating, the white sheet still clutched in my hands like a death sentence. My throat was dry. My lungs burned.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to fight.
But most of all—I was terrified.
Because Alessio DeLuca never went easy on anything.
And he was about to claim what he believed was his.
- Writer
