The training hall beneath the De Luca mansion smelled of sweat, polished steel, and old blood.
Raven arrived at dawn, still burning from the poisoned wine humiliation the night before. Sleep had been useless—every time she closed her eyes, she saw Vincent's knowing smile as he poured the tainted decanter into the fire. The soreness between her legs had faded to a dull reminder, but her pride? That was raw and bleeding.
She wore loose black training pants and a fitted tank top, hair tied back tight. Two practice knives rested in sheaths at her hips—blunted edges for sparring, but still deadly in the right hands. She'd come here for one reason: to sharpen herself against the best the De Luca family had.
