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I’m too fucked up for anything like that, and I’m pretty sure it was written out of my destiny so I wouldn’t make some poor girl’s life a living hell.

Marriage was always going to be about business to me. A contract signed to increase wealth or secure territories, followed by a life where I’d hardly see my wife and she wouldn’t have the misfortune of dealing with me.

Essentially, separate lives where we’d get together once in a while for the occasional fuck to produce heirs.

That was the plan. I just never thought I’d use marriage as a revenge tactic.

I don’t know yet what will become of Corrado’s princess once I’m done with her father. And while I can’t imagine producing heirs with her, fucking isn’t out of the question.

I guess I’ll have to see what madness this journey takes me on.

I take the stairs up to my room. Zoya said Gabrielle retreated to the confines of my room just after eight when they had dinner and pecked at the food like a little bird.

I’m surprised when I see a sliver of light shining beneath the door. Thought she’d be asleep at this hour.

I open the door, slowly, and step inside, gearing up for round two of this morning’s confrontation. But my gaze lands on her asleep on the window seat.

She’s slumped against the wall with a throw that must be from home.

I arranged for her things to be sent over this morning. Her mother packed. From the way Gabrielle’s fingers grip the edge of the throw, I can tell it must mean something to her. Even in sleep she’s still clinging on to the remnants of home.

Her old home.

I move closer, looking her over. Her hair is braided to the side, neat and tight. It makes her head look small and features appear more childlike.

She’s twenty, twenty-one in two months, but in this state, she barely looks sixteen.

My eyes roam down to her knees, where I spot something interesting. A notepad is tucked away under the cushion beside her.

I reach for it, curious to see what she’s written inside.

When I open it, I realize it’s not a notepad. It’s a sketchpad.

The little princess is an artist. Her files didn’t say anything about this.

I’m aware that she volunteers at her mother’s charity and doesn’t exactly do anything else. She was pulled out of high school when her sister was killed and never went to college—wasn’t allowed.

Understandable for safety purposes, but in Corrado’s twisted mind, he was also making sure his prized daughter remained a virgin. Everyone knows.

He’d done that before his girls were kidnapped. He was notorious for the measures he took. The bastard just got worse after the incident.

I flick through the sketchpad, impressed from the first page, when I find a drawing of a countryside with a flowing river. It looks so real I almost believe I could walk into it and dip my hands in running water. I continue flipping through, slowing down as the drawings get darker to a more gothic style, but that’s not what makes them dark. It’s the entire vibe.

Every single one is of a dark-haired girl with her back turned. While everything else seems to have some life, there’s a dead feeling about the girl.

I get to the last page, or rather the most recent page. The drawing isn’t finished yet. Looks like she got tired and parked it for the night.

The girl is there, right in the middle of the page, but on this one, her face is turned slightly.

Is it her? Is Gabrielle drawing herself? She has black hair, and there’s something familiar about these images that feels like her.

Look at me trying to figure her out.

What the fuck do I know? She’s been in my life for a little over twenty-four hours.

I close the sketch pad and set it down.

She stirs but doesn’t wake.