House of Borgia

WARNING: Incest

The corridors of the Vatican whispered with secrets. Shadows clung to the walls, hiding the sins of Rome's most powerful family. Behind golden doors, beneath frescoed ceilings that depicted saints and martyrs, Lucrezia Borgia sat in a silk-draped chamber, her golden hair spilling over her bare shoulders. She had been waiting. And she knew he would come.

The candlelight flickered as the door creaked open.

Cesare stepped inside, his movements slow, deliberate. His dark eyes—calculating, relentless—locked onto hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them was thick with unspoken words, with a hunger neither of them could afford, yet neither could deny.

"This is dangerous," she whispered, though she made no move to stop him as he crossed the room.

Cesare smirked, the ghost of amusement in his expression. "Everything we do is dangerous."

She let out a breath, part exasperation, part longing. "The Pope—"

"Our father," he corrected, voice laced with bitter amusement. "He knows nothing."

"He always knows."

Cesare reached for her, fingers grazing the delicate curve of her jaw, tilting her face up to his. "And yet, here we are."

Lucrezia closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, as if she could will away the truth of their world, the weight of their name. But when she opened them again, Cesare was still there, standing before her in the dim glow of candlelight, the son of a pope, the master of Rome's assassins, the only man who had ever truly understood her.

"I was meant to marry again," she murmured, her voice barely above the crackling of the fire. "Another political alliance, another husband I do not want."

Cesare's jaw tightened. "No man deserves you."

She gave a small, sad smile. "And yet, I am given away like a prize to be won."

Cesare exhaled sharply, his hand sliding down to her throat, his thumb resting against the frantic pulse there. "I could end it," he said. "All of it. One word, one dagger, and he would never touch you."

Lucrezia shivered. Not from fear, but from the dark promise in his voice. "Would you truly kill a man for me?"

"I have killed for less."

She believed him. She had seen the blood on his hands, the ruthlessness in his gaze. He had carved a path of destruction through Italy, bending the will of cities, poisoning those who stood in his way. But for all his violence, with her, there was always restraint. A leash held tight, a battle fought beneath his skin.

She lifted her hand, tracing the scar along his cheek, a relic from a battle he had never spoken of. "And who will protect you, Cesare?"

His lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. "I do not need protection."

She leaned closer, her breath warm against his skin. "Everyone needs protection."

Cesare's hands slid down her arms, gripping her wrists with a gentleness that did not match the fire in his eyes. "Lucrezia…"

She silenced him with a kiss. It was slow, deliberate, filled with the inevitability of a storm long foreseen. He responded in kind, his restraint snapping like a thread stretched too thin.

In this moment, there were no arranged marriages, no papal decrees, no whispered threats in the corridors of the Vatican. There was only them—two souls bound not by blood alone, but by something darker, something history would never quite name.

When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his, her breath uneven. "Will you stay?"

Cesare pressed a kiss to her temple. "Always."

But they both knew 'always' was a lie. The House of Borgia was built on ambition, on power, on games played with lives like pieces on a chessboard. And no matter how fiercely they held onto each other, the world would always pull them apart.

The Vatican bells tolled in the distance, announcing the hour. A reminder that time was never on their side.

Lucrezia sighed, stepping away from him, her fingers lingering on his as she moved. "Go," she whispered, knowing that if he didn't leave now, he never would.

Cesare hesitated, then inclined his head. "Until next time."

She watched him disappear through the door, the ghost of his touch still burning against her skin.

And in the silence, she wondered if love, in the House of Borgia, had ever been anything but a curse.