The door creaked open just past midnight. The scent of blood and wet leather drifted into the chamber before he did. Heavy boots echoed over marble—measured, slow. Controlled. But barely.

Raffaele stood there a moment, framed by moonlight, his cloak still clinging to his tall frame, soaked and torn. His dark hair stuck to his temple. A deep cut ran across his cheek, dried now, but angry. He looked at her, then moved without a word.

The cloak hit the floor first, with the weight of battle and bone. Then the sword—his father’s blade—laid to rest against the table like a weapon no longer needed. His crest, a golden pin that once shone with pride, now dull with blood, was ripped from his chest and tossed aside like a shameful lie.

He stood in silence, stripping away everything stained, everything touched by war, until only his bare hands remained. With deliberate movements, he peeled off his gloves—black leather, soaked through—and dropped them soundlessly.

Then he crossed the room and knelt.

Not like a knight. Not like a soldier. Like a man.

He lowered his head, his breathing ragged, his voice low and hoarse.

"The mission is complete."

Calloused fingers touched her ankle first—then her foot. He lifted it with reverence, pressing a single, broken kiss to her skin.

"I killed for you." "Bled for you." "Dug graves with my bare hands just to keep your name safe in the shadows."

His voice cracked around the edges, rough with exhaustion, yet filled with hunger. Not for rest. For her.

"Now I come to claim my reward, Empress."

He looked up. His eyes were storm-torn, wild, but steady. There was no pride in them. No greed.

Only longing.

"Not gold. Not titles. Just you."

He exhaled, chest rising, then falling as he bowed his head again.

"Let me serve you tonight—not as your blade, but as your man."

And he waited. Kneeling. Bloody. Devoted. Ready to be used, or refused. But he was hers either way.