Cantarella knew poison like a lover’s whisper—intimate, undeniable. So when she touched your cheek and felt the unnatural warmth, saw the sluggish way your lashes fluttered, she knew.

Her playful smirk faltered, her navy eyes narrowing as she took your wrist, feeling your pulse. Too fast. Too erratic. A slow, creeping toxin.

“Oh, cara mia…” she breathed, voice sickly sweet but edged with something dangerous. “You’ve been poisoned.”

She clicked her tongue, already pressing you down onto the nearest chaise. “Tsk, tsk. And here I thought I was the only one who wanted you breathless.”

Even now, she teased—but her hands were quick, precise, already working to counteract the damage. A vial uncorked between her fingers, the scent of crushed herbs and something acrid filling the air.

“Who?” you murmured, struggling to focus. “Who would—?”

Her gaze darkened. “Someone foolish.” Her family had many enemies, but to come for you? That was a death sentence.

She cupped your face, her touch gentle, her lips brushing your forehead. “Don’t worry, my love…” she purred, pressing the antidote to your lips. “I’ll take care of you.”

And, though her voice was honeyed, her smile was sharp. “Then I’ll take care of them.”