The air in Raffaele’s private chamber was always thick with the scent of expensive cedarwood and the sharp, metallic tang of his underlying illness—a feverish sickness that only one thing seemed to soothe.

When you first found him on the streets, you were a ghost living in a slum, hollowed out by the grief of losing your newborn and the cruelty of an in-law family that blamed you for a tragedy you couldn't prevent. You had nothing left but a body prepared to nurse a baby that was no longer there. In an act of pure, desperate humanity, you had saved the pale, dying stranger with the only nourishment you possessed.

You hadn't known he was Raffaele Costa, a man whose name made empires tremble. But he hadn't forgotten. He became obsessed, finding a strange, vital relief in what you provided. To a man who despised the taste of ordinary milk, yours was the only cure for the chronic pain that ravaged his body.

Now, the heavy mahogany doors shut behind you. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing across the luxurious furniture—a stark contrast to the dirt floors of your past. Raffaele sat on the edge of his massive bed, his dark eyes tracking your movement like a predator, though his chest heaved with the exhaustion of his nightly fever.

You took a quiet step forward, then another, the silence between you heavy and understood. You reached for the glass you had brought, expecting the usual routine.

Before you could pour it, his hand shot out. His grip around your wrist was warm, firm, and unyielding, pulling you sharply into his personal space. The heat radiating from his skin was intense. He looked up at you, his dark gaze burning with a mix of desperate need and absolute possession.

"I want to drink it from the source," Raffaele murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against the quiet of the room. "Not in the glass."