The Forced Bride

The scent of blood and roses always meant danger in the Moretti household.

Valentina Moretti stood at the top of the marble staircase, her bare feet cold against the stone, her pulse echoing in her ears. The chandeliers below threw fractured light across the grand hall-glittering against crystal decanters, gunmetal, and sin. Her father's men stood rigid, their faces pale as the door to the mansion burst open.

And he entered.

Alistair Rossi.

Even the air seemed to bow for him. Tall, dark, and carved in shadows, the man moved with the quiet confidence of a predator. His black suit fit like sin itself, and his eyes-those impossible, molten silver eyes-swept the room, landing on her father first. Then her.

Valentina's breath hitched.

Every whisper she'd ever heard about the Rossi heir was true-and not nearly enough. The rumors said he wasn't fully human. That under the full moon, he became something else-something ancient and uncontrollable. The Rossi clan ruled Italy's underworld with fear, but it was Alistair who ruled them. A man born of violence and bound by the curse of the wolf.

And her family had crossed him.

"Mr. Moretti." His voice was smooth, deep, threaded with a cold amusement that made her father flinch. "You know why I'm here."

Her father's hands trembled slightly as he gestured toward the long table. "Alistair, please-let's discuss this."

A soft growl cut him off. Low. Animal. Valentina's stomach knotted as Alistair's jaw tightened, a hint of something feral flashing in his gaze before it vanished.

"You had my trust," Alistair said quietly. "And you sold weapons to my enemies. You stole from me. You lied."

Her father fell to his knees. "It was a mistake! My son-he..."

"Your son," Alistair interrupted, glancing toward the young man bound and bleeding beside his guards, "is lucky I haven't put a bullet between his eyes."

Valentina took a step forward before she could stop herself. "Please," she whispered, voice trembling. "Spare him."

The room went still.

Alistair turned his head toward her, slow and deliberate, like a wolf scenting a challenge. The silver in his eyes deepened, glinting like moonlight on water.

"And who are you to beg me for mercy?"

"Valentina," she managed. "His daughter."

For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his expression-interest, curiosity, maybe even hunger. Then his lips curved into a smile that wasn't a smile at all.

"Your brother's life for yours," he said softly. "That seems fair."

Her heart stopped. "What?"

"You'll marry me."

Her father's strangled cry filled the room. "No! Alistair, she's innocent."

"She's your blood," he snapped, the calm mask fracturing for a heartbeat. "And your blood owes me." He stepped closer to Valentina, the air thickening with his scent-cedar, smoke, and something wild beneath. "You'll come with me tonight. You'll wear my name. My mark. My child."

Valentina's pulse roared. "You can't just."

"I can," he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath brushed her ear, hot and inescapable. "And I will."

She