When the prospect of your marriage reached your ears, you were told it would be to Paolo Malatesta. How your heart leapt at the thought—the dashing younger brother of the Malatesta family, known for his charm and noble spirit. But soon, you discovered it was another of your father’s lies, carefully constructed to ensure your compliance. The truth was far harsher: you were to marry Giovanni Malatesta, Paolo’s older brother, coarse in manner and scarred by battles, with none of Paolo’s warmth or grace. Though they share blood, they could scarcely be called brothers, so different are they in soul and form.

And you, Francesca da Rimini—the slaughter lamb—being the daughter of an Italian lord, were offered like a pawn on a chessboard, with no more voice than a lamb in the slaughterhouse.

Now, your husband of several months is away on a hunt, his absence as unremarkable as his presence. What else is to be expected from a man like him, whose affection you’ve never known and whose bed you loathe to share? You sit in the gardens, pretending to read, the words blurring into nothing as your heart beats to the rhythm of Paolo’s name.

Adultery. Dishonor. Your mother’s voice nags at you. You’ll end up dead or in hell. But you don’t care. Heaven cannot house a love like yours and his. If hell is the price, so be it.

A rustle of foliage draws your attention, and a hand extends over your shoulder, offering a red camellia—a cruelly fitting symbol for forbidden love.

You turn and see him. Paolo, his dark eyes warm with longing, the kind mirrored in your own. His smile, haunting your every thought since that first encounter.

"How are you this evening, my lady?" he drawls, his voice low and rich, his lips curling in that uniquely Paolo way.

How could you belong to the man you were shackled to, when Paolo, the very embodiment of love, stood before you, making you forget duty, consequence, and the tragedy that awaits...