began. We chose Rome.
To expand globally would be an admission that we needed more territory to feel
secure; to return to the heart of the ancient empire was an act of supreme,
untouchable arrogance. We wanted Europe’s elite to watch us walk the cobblestone
streets, completely unbothered, knowing that an entire shadow network had been
erased in a single night while they slept.
A week after the mid-alpine harvest, the heavy iron doors of the Wisdomless Club
clicked shut behind us.
The club was entirely empty, closed to the public on Caleb’s absolute authority. The
air inside was just as I remembered—thick with the scent of expensive gin, old velvet,
and the metallic tang of fresh ink. The amber glow of the chandeliers cast long,
dancing shadows across the 16th-century stone walls, focusing entirely on the glass-
walled studio at the back of the palace.
Caleb stood inside the studio, shedding his tailored blazer and rolling his shirt
sleeves past his forearms. The dark lines of his own tattoos seemed to shift under the
dim lights. He looked effortlessly powerful, his ocean-green eyes tracking me as I
walked into the room, the silk of my crimson dress whispering against the floor.
"You stood by my side in the dark, *mia regina*," Caleb murmured, his voice a low,
gravelly purr that vibrated through the quiet room. "You didn't blink when the world
burned. My family owes you its survival. I owe you my life."
"I told you once before, Caleb," I whispered, stepping directly into his personal
space, my heart hammering with that familiar, intoxicating thrill. "I love art. And I
protect what is mine."
A slow, dangerously possessive smirk played at the edge of his lips. He tilted my
chin up with his gloved fingers, his touch firm and grounding.
"Sit," he commanded softly. "It’s time to mark your victory."
He didn't choose a hidden spot this time. He chose the soft skin of my inner wrist, a
place where the pulse beat strong and visible for the entire world to see.
The machine hummed softly to life, a low, rhythmic vibration that sent a sudden
chill down my spine. Caleb leaned over me, his focus razor-sharp, his massive frame
shielding me from the rest of the dark palace. When the first needle touched my skin,
the sharp, stinging bite made me gasp.
"Breathe, Jackline," Caleb whispered, hovering inches from my face, his green eyes
burning with a fierce, absolute devotion. "Look at me."
I locked my gaze onto his, using his intensity as my anchor just as I had three years
ago. For the next hour, the pain dissolved into a pure rush of adrenaline. He worked
with fluid, reverent precision, pouring his gratitude and his possessive love into every
micro-line of ink.
When the machine finally clicked off, Caleb cleansed the area and gently lifted my
wrist.
Etched beautifully into my skin, right over my pulse, was an intricate, dark design
—a flawless, stylized silver-inked dagger wrapped in a single, blooming black rose.
It was elegant, lethal, and undeniably permanent. It was the visual proof that the naive
girl who had tripped on a mountain trail was completely gone, replaced by the woman
who ruled an empire.
"It's beautiful," I breathed, looking up at him.
Caleb stripped off his gloves and tossed them aside, not giving me a chance to
move. He leaned down, capturing my lips in a deep, heavy kiss that completely
consumed me. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling me flush against his chest as the
remnants of pain from the needle transformed into pure fire.
"Now," Caleb murmured against my lips, his eyes flashing with a proud,
untouchable fire. "Let's go show Rome who owns the night.