Blood and Vows.

Chapter 19 – Lovers and Monsters

The villa was hushed after the storm. Servants had cleared away the broken glass, washed blood from the marble, and replaced flowers in the vases so quickly that one might imagine nothing had happened. But the walls still carried it—an echo of gunfire, a tang of cordite, the whisper of betrayal.

Selma stood at the balcony in her silk robe, glass of red wine in hand, gazing down at the gardens that stretched like a tamed jungle. Moonlight traced her cheekbones, giving her beauty an almost predatory edge. She looked like a goddess sculpted from shadow and desire, but her body was trembling with hunger—not for food, not even for wine.

Behind her, the door opened without ceremony. Fernando stepped inside, wiping his damp hair back with one hand. His shirt was half unbuttoned, stained at the collar, and his eyes gleamed with the heat of a man who had survived bullets and wanted to prove he was still alive.

“You called,” he said, voice low.

“I always do,” Selma murmured without turning. She sipped her wine, her throat arching in a way that made him clench his fists. “And you always come.”

He closed the distance in three long strides, seizing her wrist and spinning her toward him. The wine sloshed crimson across her robe, but she laughed, a sound both sultry and cruel.

“You think you own me,” she teased, tilting her chin.

“I don’t think,” Fernando growled. “I know.”

Their mouths collided, the kiss fierce, bruising, an old war reignited. Selma bit his lip until blood salted the taste of the wine, and he only pulled her closer. They stumbled toward the velvet chaise by the window, shedding clothes like enemies throwing down weapons. For long moments the only sounds were breath, heartbeat, and the creak of the furniture beneath the violence of their passion.

It was not love. It had never been love. It was power, lust, survival—the twisted bond of two predators who recognized each other in the dark.

When at last she lay draped across him, her hair wild, her robe torn, her laughter softened into something huskier. She trailed a finger down his chest, nails leaving faint scratches.

“You keep me young,” she whispered.

He smirked. “You keep me alive.”

Her smile thinned. “Don’t flatter yourself. I could find another lover tomorrow.”

“But you won’t.” His hand slid around her waist possessively. “Because no one else knows you like I do. No one else would dare to take what you offer.”

For a moment, silence reigned. Then Selma threw back her head and laughed, a bright, dangerous sound. She poured herself another glass of wine, crimson spilling down the rim, and raised it in a toast.

“To monsters,” she said. “The only lovers worth having.”

Downstairs, Elma stood in the dim corridor, a bandage pulled tight around her arm where a bullet had grazed her earlier. She faced the mirror on the wall, staring at her reflection with cold eyes. The cut on her cheek stung, but she barely felt it.

Alex. The name burned across her thoughts like acid.

She replayed the moment—the ricochet, the flash of movement, the way Alex had chosen to reveal herself to save the banker woman. Rage coiled in her gut like a snake.

Elma had built her life on silence and precision. She killed without hesitation, without regret. But this failure, this humiliation in front of Selma, was intolerable.

Her knife clattered onto the table as she tightened her bandage. She spoke aloud, voice a whisper of steel.

“I will cut her throat myself. No guards, no bullets. Just my hand and her blood on the floor.”

Her lips twisted into a cold smile. “I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. Alex dies by me.”

In her chest, hatred became a vow, sharper than any blade.

Later, when Fernando had fallen asleep sprawled on the chaise, Selma slipped from his arms and returned to the balcony. The night air cooled the sweat on her skin, but her mind was far from calm.

She gazed across the gardens toward the far hills, where she imagined Sebastian’s shadow might still linger. Her son. Her greatest pride, her greatest failure.

She thought of Samantha, the trembling banker who had begged for safety. Selma had smiled sweetly, kissed her cheek, and promised rest. But the moment Sebastian escorted her from the room, Selma’s smile had vanished. She had turned to Elma and spoken in the voice that ended lives.

“Kill her.”

The words had been soft, almost kind. But Selma knew Samantha would already be marked for death.

And yet… Sebastian had interfered. Again.

She gripped the balcony rail so tightly the iron dug crescents into her palms.

He should have been hers. He was born from her body, molded by her lessons, sharpened by her cruelty. But he had turned his cold eyes on her, and in them she had seen not obedience, but defiance.

Selma whispered into the night:

“You were supposed to be my blade, Sebastian. My heir. My legacy.”

The wind stirred her hair. She closed her eyes, wine burning in her throat.

“And instead,” she admitted, voice cracking into a laugh that was not laughter, “you became my enemy. My greatest miscalculation. My only true… promakh.”

The Russian word slipped out—her private wound, her secret shame.

She rested her forehead against the rail, letting the wine glass tilt until it spilled down into the garden like blood.

Without Sebastian, she realized, all of this—her wealth, her villa, her lovers, her assassins—was a hollow theater. Without his shadow to battle, she was nothing more than a woman growing old, clinging to power through the bodies of others.

Her whisper turned raw:

“Without you, my son… I am nobody.”

She pressed her lips together, then forced a smile back onto her face, painting it like makeup. Tomorrow she would laugh again, host again, command again.

But tonight, alone in the dark, Selma allowed herself one fragile truth.

She had built an empire of fear, but her empire had betrayed her. The one creature she could never tame was the only one who mattered.

Sebastian was her curse. Her legacy. Her failure.

And she would kill him for it—

or die trying.