neonlight2

[neonlight2]

Where are all the bi femboys :(

[neonlight2]

Chapter 11: A Game of Temptation

Masterlist

...

Rome was a city of power, intrigue, and whispered sins.

But for Maria, it had become a gilded cage.

She was not a woman content to sit idly in Vatican halls, listening to the endless plots of cardinals and noblemen. She had come to Rome to see, to learn, to conquer– not to play the role of an obedient betrothed, waiting for a wedding that had yet to be arranged.

And so, she turned her attention to the only entertainment worth her time.

Cesare.

***

It started in the morning.

Maria joined Cesare for a ride through the Vatican gardens, draped in fine Spanish silks, her hair pinned up with golden combs. She knew the way his eyes flickered over her as she mounted her horse, the way his fingers twitched when she leaned a little too close to adjust her stirrups.

"You stare, amado mío," she murmured, adjusting the reins with a smirk.

Cesare exhaled a quiet chuckle. "You dress for staring."

Maria merely smiled, nudging her horse forward.

At midday, during a formal audience with cardinals, she let her fingers brush against his arm in passing, lingering just long enough for him to notice. She met his gaze beneath her lashes, her lips curving ever so slightly.

Cesare said nothing, but the look he gave her was a silent promise.

By evening, she sat beside him at a banquet, her laughter soft, her hand resting lightly on his thigh beneath the table—a fleeting touch, as innocent as it was wicked.

Cesare did not react. Not yet.

But Maria saw the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tightened around his goblet.

She was winning.

Or so she thought.

The Night of Retribution

By the time the palace halls had emptied and the Vatican had fallen into quiet, Maria retired to her chambers, stretching lazily as her maids unpinned her hair.

She expected sleep.

She did not expect Cesare.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Maria turned, arching a brow. "A late visit, mi amor?"

Cesare’s lips curved, but his gaze was dark, knowing. "You spent all day playing with fire, princesa." He stepped forward, slow, measured. "Did you think I would not notice?"

Maria smirked. "I thought you enjoyed the game."

Cesare exhaled a quiet laugh, reaching for her wrist. His fingers brushed against her pulse, slow and deliberate. "Oh, I do."

And then, he leaned in—close enough.

Maria felt the warmth of Cesare’s breath against her skin, his lips just barely grazing the shell of her ear.

"But you forget, mi princesa," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk, "I always play to win."

A shiver ran down her spine, but Maria lifted her chin, her smirk unfaltering. "Do you?"

Cesare's grip on her wrist tightened—not rough, not forceful, but firm enough to remind her of the balance shifting between them. His thumb traced lazy circles over her pulse, as if feeling the rhythm of her own anticipation.

"You spent all day teasing me," he continued, his lips just barely brushing against her cheek before pulling away. "Now it is my turn."

Maria held her ground, watching him with sharp amusement. "And how do you plan to torment me, mi amor?"

Cesare smirked, reaching for the silk ribbon at the neckline of her gown. He toyed with it, rolling it between his fingers, but did not pull.

"I could take my time," he mused, his voice deep, deliberate. "Make you wait as you made me wait."

Maria’s breath hitched, but she only arched a brow. "Patience has never been one of your virtues."

Cesare chuckled, his fingers trailing down her arm—light, barely a touch. A teasing echo of all the ways she had tormented him throughout the day.

"Then I shall prove you wrong," he murmured.

And he did.

For the first time that day, he controlled the pace.

When she expected a kiss, he pulled away. When she reached for him, he caught her hand and lifted it to his lips instead—pressing an infuriatingly slow kiss to her knuckles before stepping back.

Maria narrowed her eyes. "You are insufferable."

Cesare grinned. "Am I?"

She exhaled sharply, folding her arms. "And what if I simply retire to bed? Put an end to this little game of yours?"

Cesare tilted his head, his gaze dark, knowing. "You won't."

Maria hated that he was right.

She was no more immune to him than he was to her.

And he knew it.

Maria exhaled, stepping closer. "You are far too pleased with yourself."

Cesare smirked. "And you are far too used to winning."

Maria studied him for a long moment, then smirked. "Then tell me, mi amor—is this your victory?"

Cesare exhaled a quiet laugh. "Not yet."

And before she could retort, he finally—finally—closed the space between them.

The teasing was over.

And the real game had just begun.

[neonlight2]

Chapter 10: A Kingdom of Their Own

Masterlist

...

The road to Rome stretched long before them, a winding path of dust and promise. The journey was slow, the heavy Spanish escort ensuring Maria’s safety, but within the confines of her carriage, the world was quiet.

Cesare rode beside her in the enclosed space, the candlelight casting flickering shadows against the velvet curtains. For the first time since her choice had been made, they were alone.

Maria studied him, her fingers lightly tracing the embroidered edge of her cloak. “Do you imagine it, Cesare?”

He turned his gaze to her, dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Imagine what?”

“Our future.”

Cesare exhaled softly, leaning back against the cushions. “I have imagined many things. But the future? That depends on what we decide to make of it.”

Maria tilted her head. “And what would you make of it?”

Cesare was silent for a moment, considering. Then he smirked, tilting his head toward her. “That depends, mi princesa— do we intend to rule with war or with whispers?”

Maria smiled faintly. “Both, if we are wise.”

Cesare chuckled, reaching for the goblet of wine between them. “Then tell me—where shall we rule? Will you remain in Spain? Will I remain in Rome?”

Maria’s fingers tapped lightly against her knee. “Spain is mine. But Rome is yours.” She met his gaze. “And if I am to be by your side, I must understand your world.”

Cesare swirled the wine in his goblet. “Then you must see the Vatican, the courts, the corruption. The games my father plays, the enemies that slither through the halls. You must know who can be bought and who must be burned.”

Maria smirked. “I imagine you prefer the latter.”

Cesare’s lips curled. “It is cleaner.”

She laughed, a rich, knowing sound. “Then tell me, will we conquer or make alliances?"

Cesare took a slow sip of wine, considering. “Alliances are fleeting. Conquest is permanent.”

Maria arched a brow. “Yet alliances keep you in power.”

Cesare hummed, as if weighing the truth of her words. “Then perhaps we shall do both. A war when we need one, a marriage when we don’t.” He smirked. “But there will be no other marriage for me.”

Maria studied him, intrigued. “No?”

Cesare leaned in slightly, the candlelight casting shadows over the sharp edges of his face. “I am no fool, Maria. I would not take a wife as sharp as you only to set her aside for another.”

Maria held his gaze, her expression unreadable. Then she leaned back, her voice softer, but no less dangerous. “And what of faithfulness?”

Cesare exhaled a quiet laugh. “You know my reputation.”

Maria smirked. “Oh, I have no delusions.” She traced the rim of her goblet. “But we will rule together, Cesare. And I will not be made a fool.”

Cesare studied her, his gaze dark and knowing. “Then we must have an understanding.”

Maria inclined her head. “We must.”

Cesare set his goblet aside, watching her closely. “Shall we be true to only each other?”

Maria was silent for a moment. Then, she tilted her head slightly, considering.

“To the world?” She smirked. “Yes.”

Cesare chuckled. “And in private?”

Maria’s lips curled as she leaned forward, her breath brushing against his. “We are not children to play at false purity.”

Cesare exhaled a quiet laugh, his eyes gleaming. “Then we shall rule as we please."

Maria clinked her goblet against his, sealing their silent vow.

A kingdom of their own, shaped by their hands.

And Rome would be their first step.

...

Rome was unlike anything Maria had ever seen.

Where Seville was golden and sun-warmed, Rome was a city of shadows and splendor, marble facades masking rot, grandeur intertwined with corruption. Every step within the Vatican walls was measured, every whisper a weapon.

Maria rode through its streets with Cesare at her side, their banners flying high as the people watched with curious, knowing eyes. The Spaniard princess had arrived— the one who had chosen the Borgia son.

When they entered the Apostolic Palace, the air shifted. Here, power was not wielded by steel, but by secrets.

Pope Alexander VI awaited them in the grand hall, seated upon his gilded throne, robes heavy with gold thread. His face bore the warmth of a father greeting his son, but his eyes gleamed with the sharp calculation of a man who had built an empire upon sins.

Cesare knelt before him, ever the favored son, while Maria only inclined her head in measured respect.

“Your Holiness,” she said, her voice smooth as silk.

Rodrigo Borgia’s lips curled. “Ah, Maria of Castile. *La princesa de España.*” He lifted his arms in mock benediction. “The House of Borgia welcomes you to Rome.”

Maria smiled, knowing better than to trust kindness in a viper’s den.

The Game of Diplomacy

The meeting with the Pope was a dance—words woven like lace, diplomacy wrapped in pleasantries.

Rodrigo spoke of alliances, of the strength of Spain and the power of the Papacy. Maria, ever the strategist, countered with measured interest, never offering too much.

“The Vatican must endure,” Rodrigo mused, sipping from a goblet of rich wine. “And endurance requires… cooperation.”

Maria smiled. “Cooperation is most fruitful when both sides gain.”

Rodrigo chuckled, eyes flicking to Cesare. “You have chosen wisely, my son.”

Cesare only smirked, swirling the wine in his goblet.

***

After the formalities, Maria was introduced to the rest of the family.

Lucrezia greeted her with warmth, eyes alight with curiosity. “I have heard much of you, princesa."

Maria inclined her head. “I imagine only half is true.”

Lucrezia laughed, taking her arm. “Then let us discover the rest together.”

Juan, still nursing his wounded pride, offered only a tight smile before excusing himself. Maria did not spare him a second glance.

And then, there was her.

Giulia Farnese entered the hall with practiced grace, her presence drawing attention like a flame in the dark.

The Pope’s mistress was as breathtaking as Maria remembered—cascading golden hair, eyes like liquid honey, lips that once whispered secrets against her skin.

For a moment, time folded in on itself.

Maria saw not the Vatican, nor the Borgia halls, but a summer long ago—a villa bathed in moonlight, hands tangled in silk sheets, hushed laughter muffled by the weight of desire.

Giulia met her gaze—and in that instant, recognition flared.

But neither woman spoke of it.

Instead, Giulia’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Princesa."

Maria mirrored it, her voice light, unreadable. “Madonna Farnese.”

Lucrezia, oblivious to the charged silence, beamed. “You have met before?”

Maria tilted her head. “Only in passing.”

Giulia’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Yes. Only in passing.”

***

Later that night, Maria found herself alone with Cesare in the candlelit chambers they now shared.

He stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the city that would soon be his.

Maria approached, her voice soft but amused. “The Pope’s mistress and I share a past.”

Cesare turned, brow arched. “Do you?”

Maria smirked, pouring herself a goblet of wine. “She was my first.”

Cesare exhaled a quiet laugh, stepping closer. “And does His Holiness know?”

Maria sipped her wine, eyes gleaming. “Not unless he was watching through the keyhole.”

Cesare chuckled, tilting his head. “And will this past be a complication?”

Maria smiled, trailing a finger along the rim of her goblet. “Only if I wish it to be.”

Cesare studied her for a long moment, then smirked. “You are dangerous, mi princesa."

Maria met his gaze, the city of Rome burning behind them. “And you love me for it.”

Cesare lifted his goblet to hers. “To old lovers and new empires.”

Their glasses clinked, sealing yet another unspoken vow.

[neonlight2]

Chapter 9: The Choice of a Queen

Masterlist

...

The grand hall of the Alcázar of Seville was quiet save for the flickering of torches lining the stone walls. The scent of burning wax and aged wood filled the air as Maria stood before her father, King Ferdinand of Aragon.

He regarded her with the eyes of a man who had seen kingdoms rise and fall, his expression unreadable. “You have made your choice?”

Maria lifted her chin. “I have.”

Ferdinand’s gaze did not waver. “And it is Cesare.”

It was not a question.

Maria smiled faintly. “You knew before I did.”

Ferdinand chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “A king must know the hearts of men. And I know my daughter. You would never choose a man who did not see you.”

Maria said nothing. There was no need.

Ferdinand exhaled deeply, drumming his fingers against the armrest. “Then it is decided.”

With that, he summoned both Juan and Cesare to his chambers.

The King’s Decree

The brothers stood before him, tension crackling between them like a blade poised to strike.

Ferdinand’s gaze flickered between them before settling on Cesare. “My daughter has chosen you.”

Juan’s face darkened, but he said nothing.

Cesare, ever controlled, merely inclined his head. “An honor, Your Majesty.”

Ferdinand studied him for a long moment. “You will return to Rome soon. Maria will go with you.”

Juan blinked, his frustration giving way to shock. “She will go to Rome?”

Ferdinand’s eyes cut to him, sharp as a dagger. “For a time, yes.”

Juan opened his mouth to protest, but Ferdinand continued, his voice firm. “She must see the world that she will one day rule beside her husband. She must learn its ways, its dangers.” His gaze hardened. “And you both must protect her with your lives.”

Cesare nodded. “Of course.”

Juan hesitated, but under his father’s stare, he swallowed his pride and inclined his head. “As you command.”

Ferdinand’s expression softened only slightly as he turned back to Maria. “Go to Rome. See the seat of the Borgias’ power. And when you return, you will not return as merely my daughter.”

Maria met his gaze, understanding passing between them.

She would return as a woman who had seen all the world had to offer. A woman prepared to take what was hers.

And Rome would be her first conquest.

[neonlight2]

Chapter 8: The Final Test

Masterlist

...

Maria of Castile had weighed wars and whispers, ambition and arrogance, strength and strategy—but now, she would test the brothers not with swords or politics, but with something far more revealing.

Desire.

Men’s tongues were easy to manipulate when loosened by wine, their hands even easier when tempted by beauty. Maria knew this well. And so, she devised her own test.

Her lady-in-waiting, Inés, was no ordinary servant. She was beautiful, yes—dark-eyed, golden-skinned, with a wit as sharp as Maria’s own—but more importantly, she was loyal. She had offered herself for this test without hesitation, intrigued by Maria’s cunning.

“I have seen men fall for far less than a pretty smile,” Inés had said with a smirk. “Let us see how your Borgias fare.”

Maria only smiled.

She would not wed a man who could not resist the easiest temptation.

The First Trial: Juan

Juan Borgia was predictable. Charming, reckless, ruled by appetite more than intellect. Maria had anticipated how he would respond, but she needed proof.

The test began after a feast, when the halls were alive with wine-soaked laughter and flickering candlelight. Inés approached Juan as he leaned lazily against a stone column, swirling his goblet, his confidence unshaken despite his failures in the hunt.

“Lord Juan,” she purred, lowering her lashes just enough to feign shyness.

Juan’s gaze sharpened, then warmed as he tilted his head. “Lady Inés, is it?”

She nodded. “The princess speaks so highly of you.”

Juan chuckled, straightening. “Does she?”

“She says you are a man of great skill.” She let her fingers brush lightly against his sleeve. “A great warrior.”

Juan’s smirk deepened. “And does she also say I am a great lover?”

Inés laughed, tilting her head. “Should she have?”

Juan’s hand slid to her waist, testing, teasing. “Perhaps she should find out.”

Inés allowed him to pull her closer, but only for a moment. Then she drew back, eyes alight with knowing. “Then come,” she whispered.

Juan hesitated only for a second before following her into the shadows.

He has failed.

The second trial: Cesare

Cesare was different.

Maria knew it before the test even began—knew it in the way he looked at her, the way his mind worked through every game she set before him.

Still, she needed certainty.

Inés approached him later that night, her golden hair spilling over her shoulder as she leaned close, speaking softly. “My lord.”

Cesare looked up from his seat, eyes sharp, unreadable. “Lady Inés.”

She smiled, lowering herself beside him. “You must be weary. So much war, so much weight upon your shoulders.”

Cesare studied her, silent.

Inés let a hand trail lightly against his wrist. “Let me ease your burdens.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the flickering candlelight between them.

Then, Cesare smiled. But it was not the smile of a man tempted—it was the smile of a man who had seen the game before it even began.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice smooth as silk. “Tell me, did Maria send you?”

Inés stiffened.

Cesare chuckled, leaning back. “Ah. I see.” He lifted his goblet, taking a slow sip of wine before setting it down. “Tell her she’ll have to try harder than that.”

And with that, he rose, leaving her in stunned silence.

The Decision

Maria met Inés in her chambers, listening without expression as her friend recounted the results of the test.

When Inés finished, Maria exhaled softly.

Juan had failed. Cesare had not.

She had her answer.

And so, with the night still lingering, Maria sent for Cesare Borgia.

She would tell him he had won.

...

Maria of Castile had made her decision.

She had tested strength, ambition, and restraint. Now, she would test something far more dangerous—control.

And so, she sent for Cesare Borgia.

He arrived swiftly, as though he had expected the summons. When the chamber doors closed behind him, the air in the room changed—thick with something unspoken.

Maria stood near the great gilded mirror, her back to him, undoing the pins in her hair. Golden strands tumbled down her back as she met his reflection in the glass.

“You passed my test,” she said.

Cesare did not move from where he stood by the door, watching her with an unreadable gaze. “I expected no less.”

Maria smirked, removing another pin. “You expected I would send a woman to seduce you?”

Cesare stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “I expected you would test me in ways no other woman would.”

She turned then, facing him fully. Her gown was undone at the shoulders, the fabric slipping ever so slightly, revealing a hint of bare skin beneath. It was a calculated movement—not an invitation, but a provocation.

She wanted to see if he was truly a man who could hold himself back.

“Tell me, Cesare,” she murmured, tilting her head. “Do you find me beautiful?”

His lips curved slightly. “Would you believe me if I said no?”

Maria laughed softly, stepping closer. The candlelight cast a warm glow over her skin, and she knew exactly how she looked before him—barely covered, effortlessly tempting.

She watched him carefully. Would he break? Would he take?

Cesare did neither.

Instead, he merely looked at her, his gaze steady, unwavering.

“You wanted to see if I would falter,” he murmured.

Maria took another step forward. “You say that as if the test is over.”

Cesare exhaled a quiet laugh, reaching out—but instead of touching her bare skin, his fingers only grazed the fabric of her sleeve, pulling it back up over her shoulder.

“You are playing a dangerous game, mi princesa," he murmured, his voice low.

Maria felt the heat of his breath, the closeness of him. And yet, he had not touched her as other men would have.

Not as Juan would have.

Not as a man desperate to own her.

But as a man who understood her.

She smiled then, slow and knowing. “I had to be sure.”

Cesare’s hand lingered for only a moment before he let the fabric go, stepping back. “And now?”

Maria studied him, the man who had bested every test, the man who had seen her for who she truly was—not just as a woman to be won, but as a ruler to be reckoned with.

“Now,” she said, voice like a promise, “I have my answer.”

[neonlight2]

Chapter 7: The Hunt

Masterlist

...

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long golden rays over the dense Spanish forests. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth as the hunting party prepared for the ride ahead. Horses pawed at the ground, their breath rising in clouds, while hounds barked and strained at their leashes, eager for the chase.

Juan and Cesare Borgia sat atop their horses, their eyes drawn to the woman who rode at the head of the party beside her father, King Ferdinand of Aragon.

Maria of Castile was no passive observer. Clad in fitted riding leathers rather than a gown, she held the reins of her horse with effortless ease, her back straight, her gaze sharp as she surveyed the terrain. There was no hesitation in her posture, no doubt in her skill.

To many kingdoms, the idea of a woman riding in a royal hunt was unthinkable—an offense to tradition, a scandal in waiting. But here, in the lands of Castile and Aragon, Maria rode without question, her presence as natural as that of any man in the party.

Juan, ever eager to impress, guided his horse closer to her. “I must say, Princess, this is an unusual sight. Most women would remain behind, waiting for the men to return with their spoils.”

Maria did not spare him a glance as she adjusted her gloves. “Most women are not my father’s heir.”

Cesare, riding slightly behind, smirked. He had expected no less from her.

King Ferdinand, who had been silent thus far, chuckled at Juan’s remark. “You would do well to unlearn what most kingdoms do, Juan. In Spain, we do not judge a warrior by their sex, but by their skill.”

Juan blinked, clearly caught off guard by the king’s words. “Of course, Your Majesty. I meant no offense.”

Ferdinand merely gave him a pointed look before urging his horse forward, signaling the beginning of the hunt.

The Chase

The party rode deep into the forest, following the baying of the hounds as they picked up the scent of a stag. The thrill of the chase took hold as the horses galloped through the underbrush, the wind whipping against their faces.

Maria rode with ease, her focus unwavering as the hunt unfolded.

Juan, determined to prove himself, kept pace with her, maneuvering his horse to remain at her side. He leaned in slightly. “Tell me, Princess, do you ride for sport or for conquest?”

Maria’s lips quirked into a smirk. “Is there a difference?”

Juan laughed, but his amusement faded when Maria suddenly spurred her horse forward, leaving him behind.

Cesare, who had been observing quietly, matched her pace with effortless precision. “You enjoy making him chase you,” he noted.

Maria flicked him a glance. “Let him sweat a little.”

Cesare chuckled, but his attention snapped back to the hunt as the stag finally burst from the trees, dashing into a clearing.

Maria reacted instantly, drawing her bow in one swift motion. Her arrow flew, striking the stag cleanly behind the shoulder. The animal stumbled, but Juan, determined to claim victory, raised his own weapon and fired—his arrow landing just after hers.

The stag collapsed, its great body heaving before going still. A beat of silence followed before Juan let out a triumphant laugh, dismounting and approaching the kill.

“A fine hunt!” he declared. He gestured to the fallen stag. “It seems we have both earned this prize, Princess.”

Maria dismounted as well, removing her gloves with unhurried precision. “Did we?” She stepped closer to the stag, noting the placement of the arrows. “Tell me, Juan—do you truly believe this is your kill?”

Juan smirked. “My arrow landed as well.”

Maria knelt beside the stag, tracing her fingers lightly over its fur. “But it was already dying when you struck it. Mine was the killing blow.”

Juan’s grin faltered slightly, but before he could respond, King Ferdinand spoke.

“She is right.” He dismounted, walking forward with the assured presence of a ruler. “A hunter does not claim a kill simply because he was present. It is the first strike, the decisive blow, that determines the victor.”

Juan’s jaw tightened, but he bowed his head. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Maria rose, locking eyes with Juan as she smiled—calm, knowing, victorious.

Cesare, still astride his horse, watched the exchange with interest. Unlike Juan, he did not bristle at Maria’s success. Instead, he looked at her with something far more dangerous than jealousy.

Respect.

A Lesson in Power

As the hunting party returned to the palace, Maria rode alongside her father, their conversation quiet but weighted.

“You were testing them,” Ferdinand observed.

Maria smiled faintly. “And they did not disappoint.”

Ferdinand nodded. “Juan sees only glory. But Cesare… he sees power.”

Maria glanced over her shoulder, her gaze landing on Cesare, who met her eyes with a knowing smirk.

“I know,” she murmured.

And, for the first time, she wondered if she had finally found a man who did not fear the idea of a woman ruling beside him.

[neonlight2]

Chapter 6: A Game of Cards and Virtue

Masterlist

...

The Spanish palace was quiet at night, the halls emptied of courtiers and servants save for the occasional flicker of torchlight against the stone walls. But in a secluded chamber lit only by a handful of candles, two figures sat across from one another, a deck of cards placed between them.

Cesare Borgia leaned back in his chair, one hand idly toying with the rim of his goblet, the other resting against the hilt of his dagger. Across from him, Maria of Castile shuffled the deck with practiced ease, her fingers deftly gliding over the worn edges of the cards.

“So,” Cesare murmured, watching her, “you summon me in the dead of night, not for whispered promises or secret alliances, but to play cards?”

Maria smirked, dealing the first hand. “I wanted to see if you play as ruthlessly at the table as you do in politics.”

Cesare chuckled. “A dangerous challenge, Princess. Do you know what they say of me?”

Maria’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Oh, I know quite a bit.” She lifted a card, examining it as if it held some deeper secret. “In fact, I had a rather illuminating conversation with your sister today.”

Cesare arched a brow. “Lucrezia?”

“The very same.” Maria flicked a card onto the table. “She had quite a lot to say about you. That you are cunning. That you are dangerous.” She tilted her head. “That you do not belong to any throne.”

Cesare smiled faintly, his fingers tapping against the wood. “And did that surprise you?”

“No.” Maria set down another card, watching his expression. “What did surprise me, however, was how much she warned me.”

Cesare studied her, his amusement giving way to something more calculating. “And what did you take from that warning?”

Maria leaned forward slightly. “That you are a man who does not give up what he desires easily. That, should I choose you, I will never be free of you.”

Cesare met her gaze. “And does that frighten you?”

Maria laughed, a low, rich sound. “You overestimate your own menace, Cesare.” She played another card. “Men have tried to control me before.”

Cesare placed a card of his own. “And I suspect they failed.”

Maria’s smirk deepened. “Miserably.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of the flickering candle and the shifting of cards. The tension between them was neither hostile nor affectionate—it was something else entirely, something unspoken and sharp-edged.

Then Maria, ever the one to stir the fire, tilted her head and regarded him with an amused glint. “Your sister also mentioned your social reputation.”

Cesare smirked. “Ah. That reputation.”

“Yes.” She pretended to look thoughtful. “The one that says you are… how should I put this? Less than chaste, despite your holy vows.”

Cesare laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the room. “I was a cardinal in name, not in practice.” He picked up his goblet, watching her over the rim as he drank. “Is this your way of inquiring if the rumors are true?”

Maria shrugged, playing another card. “I hardly need confirmation. The way you carry yourself says enough.”

Cesare watched her, intrigued. “You do not seem the sort to concern yourself with virtue.”

Maria smiled, slow and deliberate. “Because I don’t.”

She let the words settle between them before leaning back in her chair, fingers idly tracing the edge of her cards. “You see, Cesare, I am not chaste either.”

Cesare tilted his head, intrigued. “No?”

“No.” She studied him, gauging his reaction. “Men, women… I take pleasure where I find it.” She smiled, sharp as a dagger’s edge. “Surely, you of all people would not judge me for that?”

Cesare’s expression did not shift—there was no shock, no judgment, only quiet interest. Then, slowly, he placed his cards down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “On the contrary,” he murmured, voice low, “I think it makes you even more fascinating.”

Maria held his gaze, letting silence stretch between them like a drawn bowstring. Then, she exhaled, amused. “I am fascinating.”

Cesare chuckled. “That, Princess, I do not doubt.”

Maria glanced at the cards, then back at him. “But the real question is… do you intend to win this game?”

Cesare smiled, picking up his next card. “I do not enter games I cannot win.”

Maria smirked, playing her final card. “Neither do I.”

She laid it down with a flick of her wrist, revealing her victory. Cesare blinked, then laughed, shaking his head.

“Well played,” he murmured.

Maria took a sip of her wine, eyes gleaming over the rim. “We’ll see if you still say that when the real game begins.”

Cesare tilted his goblet toward her in a silent toast. “I look forward to it.”

...

The morning light spilled into the Spanish palace, casting golden hues across the grand hall where Maria of Castile awaited her suitors. Dressed in deep crimson, she stood with a regal ease, her hands resting lightly at her sides, her gaze sharp as she watched Juan and Cesare Borgia enter the chamber together.

Both men carried themselves with confidence, but where Juan walked with the swagger of a man accustomed to admiration, Cesare moved with calculated grace, always watching, always assessing.

Maria allowed them to approach before speaking. “Cesare, leave us. I wish to speak with Juan alone.”

Cesare’s brow arched slightly, but he merely inclined his head, offering her a smirk before turning to his brother. “Try not to disappoint her.”

Juan scoffed. “You assume I ever could.”

Cesare said nothing, only chuckled as he left. Maria waited until the doors shut behind him before turning her full attention to Juan.

He grinned, stepping closer. “You send my brother away so quickly? I must say, I find it flattering.”

Maria gave him a slow smile. “Should you?”

Juan’s grin widened. “I would like to think so.”

Maria gestured toward the cushioned chairs by the window, an invitation laced with command. “Sit with me, Juan.”

He obeyed without hesitation, stretching out comfortably as she took the seat across from him.

“I have been thinking,” Maria said, tilting her head slightly, “about virtue.”

Juan blinked, then let out a short laugh. “A strange subject for the morning, Princess. But by all means, continue.”

Maria studied him, fingers tapping lightly against the carved armrest of her chair. “Tell me, what do you think of virtue?”

Juan smirked. “That depends. Are we speaking of virtue in a woman or in a man?”

Maria’s lips curled. “Is there a difference?”

Juan leaned forward slightly, his tone teasing but laced with something more arrogant beneath. “Of course. A woman’s virtue is her most valuable possession—her honor, her chastity, her worth. A man’s virtue, however, lies in his strength, his courage, his conquests.”

Maria hummed, arching a brow. “So, you believe a woman must be chaste, yet a man is free to take what pleasure he wishes?”

Juan grinned, as if enjoying the game. “Such is the way of the world, is it not?”

Maria’s fingers stilled. “And are you a virtuous man, Juan?”

Juan laughed outright at that. “Oh, Princess, surely you know better than to ask me that.”

Maria tilted her head, keeping her expression unreadable. “So you admit it—you do not practice the virtues you claim to value.”

Juan smirked. “I am a Borgia. Virtue is for priests and poets.”

Maria exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Then tell me, Juan… if virtue is for poets, what of chastity?” She leaned forward slightly, watching his face. “Do you expect it in your future wife?”

Juan shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Naturally.”

Maria let silence stretch between them, waiting to see if he would recognize the hypocrisy of his words.

He did not.

Instead, he leaned back, looking at her with something bordering on satisfaction. “A woman must be untouched, pure. It is a sign of her value.”

Maria stared at him for a long moment before smiling, slow and knowing.

“Fascinating,” she murmured.

Juan smirked, mistaking her amusement for approval. “I like to think so.”

Maria simply tilted her head, studying him. He was a fool—handsome, charming, but a fool nonetheless. A man who demanded tradition only when it benefited him, blind to his own hypocrisy.

And, more importantly, not a man she could trust.

Juan’s arrogance was dangerous, but not because of intelligence or strategy. No—he was dangerous because he truly believed in the double standard he preached. If she were to reveal her own indiscretions, her own fancies, she had no doubt he would turn on her. Not because he was virtuous, but because he expected her to be.

Maria rose, smoothing the folds of her gown. “Thank you, Juan. This has been… enlightening.”

Juan stood as well, grinning. “I do aim to please.”

Maria smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

And that is exactly why you never will.

[neonlight2]

Chapter 5: The Sister’s Judgment

Masterlist

...

The air in the Spanish court was thick with intrigue. Juan and Cesare Borgia had each made their moves, proving their worth through war and cunning, yet Maria was not satisfied. She was a strategist, a ruler in the making, and a queen could not afford to make a choice without knowing all the pieces on the board.

She had seen how the brothers fought for power, but she had not yet seen them through the eyes of someone who knew them better than anyone.

And so, she requested an audience with Lucrezia Borgia.

The request surprised many—why summon the Pope’s daughter to Spain, a land still wary of Rome’s influence? But Maria was undeterred. She wanted to see the woman who had been raised alongside both Juan and Cesare, who had known them before ambition had hardened them. A sister’s insight would reveal more than any battlefield or courtly maneuver ever could.

It was weeks before Lucrezia arrived in Castile, but when she did, Maria knew instantly that she was not a woman to be underestimated.

Lucrezia entered the great hall with grace, her golden hair catching the candlelight, her gown of deep emerald reflecting the wealth and prestige of the House of Borgia. Yet beneath her delicate beauty, Maria could see something else—an awareness, a quiet intelligence. Lucrezia was not merely a pawn in the games of men. She was a player in her own right.

The two women met in Maria’s private chambers, away from the prying eyes of Juan and Cesare. Maria sat in a high-backed chair, watching as Lucrezia settled across from her, poised but curious.

“You are not what I expected,” Maria admitted.

Lucrezia smiled, tilting her head. “And what did you expect?”

“A girl shaped by the ambitions of men.” Maria sipped her wine. “Yet, you do not seem like a woman who allows herself to be ruled.”

Lucrezia’s smile deepened. “I have had little choice but to learn the game. A woman in my family who does not understand power is doomed to be used by it.”

Maria set down her goblet, leaning forward. “Then let us speak plainly. I have two brothers vying for my hand, each claiming to be the one who will secure my rule. But words are easy. I would know them as they truly are. So tell me, Lucrezia—who is the better choice?”

Lucrezia’s expression did not change, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

“You ask me to betray one brother for another,” she said. “That is no easy request.”

Maria smirked. “I never said I would make this easy.”

Lucrezia considered her for a long moment before finally speaking. “Juan is passionate, impulsive. He desires greatness, but he often overestimates his own abilities. He is charming, but charm alone cannot rule a kingdom.”

Maria nodded. “And Cesare?”

A pause. Then, Lucrezia’s gaze darkened slightly. “Cesare is dangerous.”

Maria raised an eyebrow. “More than Juan?”

“Far more.” Lucrezia’s voice was quiet, but firm. “He does not fight wars for glory—he fights to win. He does not play politics for favor—he plays for control. If you choose him, he will be your most loyal protector.” She exhaled. “But he will also be the one you can never truly own. He does not belong to any throne, Maria, no matter how much he claims otherwise.”

Maria tapped her fingers against the armrest of her chair. She had expected Lucrezia to favor Cesare, yet her words were a warning, not an endorsement.

Lucrezia tilted her head. “And tell me, Princess—what do you seek in a husband?”

Maria sighed, rubbing her temple. “Someone who will not challenge my authority. Someone strong enough to protect Spain but wise enough to know that it is my kingdom, not his.” She smirked suddenly, her voice turning dry. “It would have been far easier if I could have just married you instead.”

Lucrezia laughed, a genuine, musical sound. “Ah, but that would be far too simple. And we both know the world does not favor simple things.”

Maria shook her head, smiling despite herself. “No. It does not.”

She leaned back, considering what she had learned. Juan was passionate but reckless. Cesare was brilliant but unpredictable. Neither choice was without risk.

But she was no closer to knowing which risk she was willing to take.

Lucrezia watched her, as if reading her thoughts. Then, after a moment, she spoke again, her voice softer this time.

“You are stronger than they realize, Maria. Do not let either of them forget that.”

Maria looked at her, and for the first time in this game of power, she felt something unexpected.

Respect.

Lucrezia stood, offering a graceful nod. “I will leave you to your decision, Princess. But whatever you choose, remember—Borgia men do not love lightly. Nor do they let go.”

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Maria alone with her thoughts, the weight of the choice ahead pressing down upon her.

[neonlight2]

Chapter 4: Trials of Power

Masterlist

...

The challenge had been set. Princess Maria of Castile had made it clear—she would not be won by sweet words alone. If Juan and Cesare Borgia wanted her, they would have to prove their worth through action.

Neither brother intended to lose.

Juan’s Gambit

Juan moved quickly. He knew that the best way to impress Maria was through spectacle—glory won on the battlefield, the kind of victory that could not be ignored. Spain was still threatened by remnants of the Nasrid Emirate in the south, and while Maria’s parents had driven the Moors from Granada, there were still whispers of uprisings, of factions unwilling to yield.

Juan saw an opportunity.

Within weeks, he had rallied a force under the banner of Castile, swearing before the court that he would ride to the frontier and stamp out any sign of rebellion in Maria’s name. He wanted her to see him as a conqueror, a warrior worthy of a queen’s hand.

Before he left, he stood before Maria in the courtyard, clad in his finest armor, the sun gleaming off his polished breastplate. A crowd had gathered to watch him depart.

“Mark my words, Princess,” Juan declared, loud enough for all to hear. “When I return, it will be with the heads of your enemies at my feet.”

Maria, seated in her place of honor, regarded him with an impassive expression. “Do not make promises lightly, Juan. A man is only as strong as the victories he keeps.”

Juan smirked, bowing deeply. “Then you shall see how strong I truly am.”

With that, he rode off, his soldiers trailing behind him in a cloud of dust.

Cesare’s Strategy

Unlike Juan, Cesare had no intention of chasing glory on the battlefield—not yet. He knew that Maria did not just need a man who could fight. She needed one who could secure her throne before she even wore the crown.

So while Juan sought to prove himself with war, Cesare played the game of politics.

He met with nobles in secret, learning who among them harbored ambitions of their own. He bribed courtiers, whispered into the ears of Spain’s most powerful men, and uncovered plots that threatened Maria’s future rule. More importantly, he made certain that when the time came, Maria would not simply ascend the throne—she would command it without opposition.

One night, he requested an audience with her.

She met him in a quiet chamber, away from prying eyes. A single candle burned between them, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.

“You have not left to fight like your brother,” Maria observed, studying him. “Is this your way of conceding?”

Cesare smirked. “Juan plays at war. I play for the crown.”

She tilted her head. “And what crown is that?”

“The one that will be placed upon your head,” Cesare said smoothly. “A queen does not need a husband who can wield a sword. She needs one who can make certain she keeps her throne once it is hers.”

Maria leaned forward slightly. “And you think you can do that?”

“I know I can,” he murmured. “I have already uncovered three plots against your future reign. Men who whisper of replacing you with a cousin, a brother, even a distant French alliance.” He watched her reaction carefully. “But I have ensured their silence. They will not challenge you.”

Maria’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes shifted—interest, calculation. “And what is your price for such loyalty?”

Cesare smiled, but it was not soft. It was the smile of a man who had already decided what he wanted.

“You know what I want.”

Maria held his gaze, and for the first time, she did not look away.

The Reckoning

Weeks passed.

Juan returned from his campaign, victorious and full of pride. He paraded through the streets of the palace, his soldiers cheering as he presented Maria with the spoils of war—gold, banners stripped from fallen enemies, and even prisoners captured in battle.

He stood before her in the grand hall, triumphant. “I have done as I promised, Princess. I have won in your name.”

Maria regarded him, her expression unreadable. “A bold display.”

Juan grinned. “And proof that I am the man you need at your side.”

Before Maria could respond, Cesare stepped forward.

“And yet, while you were chasing battles, Maria’s enemies within this very court were sharpening their knives,” he said, his voice calm but cutting. “They did not fear your victories, Juan. They feared what she might become. I made certain they no longer had a choice.”

Juan scowled. “You scheme in the shadows while I fight in the light.”

“And yet, in the end,” Cesare said, turning to Maria, “which of us has done more to secure your rule?”

Maria sat in silence for a long moment, looking between them.

“You both have given me much,” she finally said. “And yet, there is still one thing neither of you have proven.”

Juan frowned. “And what is that?”

Maria stood, her gaze sharp and unwavering. “That I can trust you.”

The brothers tensed.

She smiled faintly. “And I will not make my decision until I know who among you is truly loyal to me—and no one else.”

The game was not over. It had only just begun.

[neonlight2]

Chapter 3: The Price of a Union

Masterlist

...

The great hall of the Spanish palace buzzed with conversation as nobles dined, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine. But at the center of the gathering, an exchange far more dangerous than courtly gossip was taking place.

Princess Maria of Castile, heir to one of the most powerful kingdoms in Christendom, sat between the Borgia brothers. She had been courted before, had listened to men drape her in pretty words and promises of devotion. But she was no fool. Spain’s future rested on her shoulders, and she would not be won with empty flattery.

She took a measured sip of her wine before fixing Cesare and Juan with an expectant gaze.

“You both speak of union,” she said, her voice low but commanding. “But tell me, how exactly does a marriage to either of you serve me?”

Juan leaned in first, his golden charm on full display. “Princess, surely you see the benefits of an alliance with Rome. My father, Pope Alexander, holds the keys to Saint Peter’s throne. With his blessing, your rule would be indisputable. No rival, no claimant, no distant cousin would dare question your sovereignty if the Holy Father himself sanctifies our union.”

Maria studied him, unmoved by his bravado. “And what of Castile and Aragon? My people do not wish to be ruled by Rome. They serve their queen, not the Pope’s whims.”

Juan laughed lightly, unfazed. “Then let them have their queen. I seek not to rule over you, Maria, but beside you. Together, we would be the most envied sovereigns in Europe. Our children would bind Spain and the Papacy into a dynasty greater than any before it. Your enemies would become my enemies, and they would fall before my sword.” He grinned. “I am a warrior, after all.”

Maria tilted her head. “A warrior who has yet to win a war.”

Juan’s jaw tensed at the insult, but before he could retort, Cesare spoke.

“My brother offers you the Pope’s favor, but tell me, Maria—do you wish to be beholden to Rome?”

Maria turned to him, watching as Cesare leaned back in his chair, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows across his face. His voice was quieter than Juan’s, but it carried weight.

“You are strong,” he continued. “Stronger than most men I’ve met. I do not think you would suffer well under the demands of another ruler, be it a husband or the Papacy.” He let the words settle before leaning in. “But with me, you would have something greater than papal favor. You would have power—real power, not granted by a man in Rome, but built with our own hands.”

Maria considered him, swirling her wine as she did. “And what does this power look like, Cesare?”

He smirked. “It looks like a Castile and Aragon untouched by papal interference. It looks like an army trained to your command, one that bows only to its queen. You are your father’s daughter, Maria. You do not need Rome’s approval to rule. You need a partner who understands your vision—and who can make it a reality.”

Maria’s lips curved slightly, but there was calculation in her gaze. “And what of you, Cesare? You speak as though you are free to make such promises, but you are bound to the Church. A cardinal, last I heard.”

Juan smirked, seizing on the moment. “Ah, but that is Cesare’s greatest flaw, is it not? A man sworn to God cannot give you heirs, Maria.” He lifted his goblet. “Whereas I can.”

Cesare’s expression did not change, but there was a flash of something dark in his eyes. “Do not mistake my station for my ambition, brother,” he said smoothly. “If I were to marry the future queen of Spain, do you think I would remain a cardinal?”

Maria watched the tension between them build, the weight of their rivalry heavy in the air. She had expected them to compete for her hand, but she had underestimated the intensity of their desire—not just for her, but for what she represented.

Taking another slow sip of wine, she finally spoke. “Both of you offer much. And yet, neither of you have given me reason to believe you would be loyal to me.” Her gaze flicked between them. “Men seek thrones, they do not serve them. What assurance do I have that once I am queen, I will not become an ornament at my husband’s side, left to wither while he rules in my name?”

Juan scoffed. “Maria, you insult me. I would worship you.”

Cesare chuckled. “She does not want worship. She wants control.”

Maria turned fully to Cesare, intrigued. “And you would give me control?”

“I would give you something better,” he said. “I would make sure no one could take it from you.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken promises. Juan exhaled sharply, his confidence shaken but not broken.

Maria set down her goblet and stood, smoothing the silk of her gown. “You both have given me much to consider.” She turned to leave but then paused, looking over her shoulder. “But if either of you seek to claim me, you must prove your worth.”

Juan grinned. “Name it.”

Maria’s eyes gleamed with challenge. “I am not yet queen. But when I am, I will not rule a kingdom that is weak. Castile and Aragon must be secured—by force, if necessary. Show me which of you can be trusted to do what must be done. Show me who will fight for Spain as fiercely as they fight for me.”

And with that, she was gone, leaving the Borgia brothers staring after her—two wolves locked in a battle they had not yet won.

[neonlight2]

Chapter 2: The Game Begins

Masterlist

...

It was at a grand banquet held in the palace that the first true exchange between Juan, Cesare, and Maria took place. The candlelight flickered across the marble floors, the sound of soft music filling the air. As the guests mingled, Maria, draped in a gown of sapphire silk, caught the eye of both Borgias.

Juan, ever the showman, was the first to approach. He sauntered across the room with an easy grin, his tall figure standing out among the other courtiers. His charm was undeniable, and he quickly caught Maria's attention.

"Princess Maria," he said, bowing low. "The beauty of this night pales in comparison to your radiance."

Maria, who had grown accustomed to the empty compliments of suitors, raised an eyebrow. "Flattery, Signor Borgia? I did not think your kind to be so generous."

Juan laughed, his confidence unwavering. "I speak only the truth, Princess. A woman like you deserves nothing less."

Maria smiled, but there was an edge to her expression. "And what is it that you think I deserve, Signor Borgia?"

Before Juan could respond, Cesare appeared at her side, his presence as commanding as it was silent. His dark eyes studied Maria with the precision of a tactician, his posture stiff and measured.

"Forgive my interruption, Maria," Cesare said, his voice smooth and deep. "Juan's charm, though abundant, does not quite compare to the offer I have."

Maria’s gaze flickered between the two brothers, her lips curling into a subtle, knowing smile. "And what offer is that, Cesare?"

Cesare stepped closer, his voice a whisper meant only for her ears. "A union of strength, one forged through power, not mere flattery. Spain needs more than a puppet king. You need a ruler who will stand at your side, not behind you."

Juan’s smile faltered at Cesare’s words, and he stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "And I suppose you think that you are that ruler?"

"I believe I am," Cesare replied, his voice quiet but filled with quiet assurance. "What good is a throne if it is not supported by the right man?"

Juan, who had always relied on his bravado, clenched his fists but kept his composure.

[neonlight2]

Chapter 1: The Royal Intrigue

Masterlist

...

The grand palace of the Spanish court glittered with opulence as King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella’s presence filled the room. The heat of political maneuvering was palpable; the air was thick with tension and whispered secrets. Guests from across Europe had come to witness the delicate dance of diplomacy, but at the heart of it all, two brothers, Juan and Cesare Borgia, were drawn into a dangerous game they had never before expected.

Juan, the eldest Borgia son, with his bold, boastful manner and sharp sense of entitlement, had always been accustomed to the spotlight. His beauty and charm had made him a favored son, but with that position came his arrogance and a deep belief that he was deserving of the highest honors. But there was another element that he craved—a woman’s affection—and not just any woman, but the woman who was set to become the future ruler of Spain: Princess Maria of Castile.

Maria was unlike any woman Juan had ever known. She was intelligent, strong-willed, and fiercely independent. She would one day inherit the Spanish throne, and her marriage would be of the utmost political importance. Yet, despite her royal status, Maria was a woman of passion, someone whose heart was as wild as it was beautiful. Juan saw an opportunity in her and believed that through marriage, he could secure Spain for the Borgias—an alliance that could crown him not only as the future husband of the queen but also as a ruler in his own right.

Cesare, on the other hand, was not one to indulge in romantic distractions. His focus had always been on power, on building an empire that could rival the greatest of monarchs. But when he saw Maria for the first time, something stirred within him. She was not the fragile, compliant woman that many European courts expected of their princesses. No, Maria was a force of nature, and Cesare could not help but admire her strength, her sharp intellect, and her poise. Yet, he knew that if he allowed his heart to be swayed by this princess, it would distract him from his greater ambitions. And still, he could not tear his eyes away from her.

The two Borgia brothers, so different in their approach, found themselves unknowingly locked in a contest for Maria’s affection—a contest that was not just about love, but about power.

[neonlight2]

The Games We Play

Masterlist

...

The sun hung high over Rome, its golden rays casting shadows on the cobblestones of the Borgia residence. The Vatican courtyard bustled with activity, a typical day in the life of the powerful Borgia family. But Isabella’s thoughts were far from the political matters that her family usually concerned themselves with. Instead, she was focused on something—or rather, someone—much more personal.

Cesare.

Her adopted brother had always been an enigma, a man of control and ambition, a man who exuded power. But today, she would make him feel something he rarely let himself experience— desire.

Isabella had chosen her attire carefully—an elegant gown of deep green that complemented the dark hue of her eyes, and her hair, cascading loosely down her back, framed her face with a touch of vulnerability that she knew would lure him in. She found herself lingering near the entrance to the courtyard, her eyes scanning the crowd, and then she spotted him—Cesare, commanding the attention of the room as he often did. His posture was rigid, his gaze sharp, as he spoke to a nobleman about matters of business, but Isabella knew he was aware of her presence.

With a delicate step, she walked past him, her body brushing ever so lightly against his as she made her way across the room. She caught the briefest flash of irritation in his eyes, quickly masked by his impassive exterior. The corner of her mouth curled into a subtle smile. She could feel his attention on her, even without looking back.

---

Later that day, during a lavish banquet where the family entertained guests, Isabella found herself sitting beside a foreign ambassador—tall, dark-haired, and well-spoken. His accent was charming, his eyes filled with admiration for her beauty, and he made no secret of his interest. He leaned in closer than necessary, his hand brushing lightly against hers, his voice low as he praised her presence.

“Signorina Isabella, I must confess, I have rarely encountered such beauty in a woman. You possess a grace that most only dream of.”

Isabella could feel Cesare's gaze on her from across the room, his posture stiffening, his jaw tightening as he watched the ambassador's attention fall entirely upon her. She allowed the moment to linger, her fingers deliberately tracing the rim of her goblet, giving the ambassador the courtesy of attention as she casually glanced over at Cesare. His expression was unreadable, but she knew the fire simmered beneath the surface.

Her heart beat faster. She was playing a dangerous game, but it was thrilling. Cesare, the man who held everything under his command, was being drawn into a web she was spinning with every soft glance, every casual touch.

---

The afternoon wore on, and as the day began to wane into evening, Isabella stood by the balcony, pretending to admire the fading light of the sunset. She could feel the weight of Cesare’s gaze on her again, though he had yet to approach. Instead, he remained at the center of the gathering, surrounded by advisers, nobles, and men of influence. He spoke to them, but his eyes kept straying to her—always to her.

With a slow turn of her head, Isabella caught his eye, letting a soft laugh escape her lips. She was playing him like a harp, each note strung carefully to provoke him.

A nobleman, eager to impress, approached her, holding a glass of wine. “A drink, my lady?” he asked, his hand hovering just above her shoulder as he offered it.

She accepted the drink with a soft smile, her eyes still locked with Cesare’s. His posture had grown even more rigid, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as if his patience was thinning. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she relished every second of it.

As she took a sip, she let the moment linger, allowing the nobleman to engage in light conversation with her, but never fully giving him her attention. Her thoughts were solely on Cesare—the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes narrowed. She knew that despite his carefully constructed mask of indifference, he was *feeling* this. She had made him feel this.

---

As night finally descended upon the residence, the family retired to their private chambers for the evening, but the tension lingered, thick in the air. Isabella entered her room, her heart still racing from the game she had played with Cesare. She had pushed him, tested his patience, and she was certain that by now, he was furious—though he would never show it.

She gazed into the mirror, her reflection looking back at her with a knowing smile. The evening had been a success.

She was about to undress for the night when the door to her chambers opened without a knock.

She froze.

There, standing in the doorway, was Cesare. His eyes, dark and intense, locked with hers. His chest rose and fell with measured breaths, his jaw still set. He didn’t say a word as he stepped into the room, and the door clicked shut behind him with a finality that made her pulse race.

“You’ve been playing a dangerous game, Isabella,” he said, his voice low and controlled, but there was a noticeable edge to it.

She smiled, as if the situation was nothing more than a passing amusement. “I’m not sure what you mean, Cesare.”

He took a step forward, his eyes scanning her from head to toe, a mixture of desire and anger swirling in them. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Isabella slowly turned toward him, her lips curling into a teasing smile. “What do you plan to do about it?” she asked, a challenge in her voice.

Cesare closed the distance between them in two strides. Before she could even blink, his hand was gripping her arm, pulling her toward him with a force that made her breath catch. “You’ve made me watch,” he murmured, his lips barely an inch from hers, his voice thick with barely-contained frustration. “Watch as men flock to you, as they touch you, as they speak to you like you’re theirs. And now you will pay for that.”

Isabella’s heart thudded in her chest. She felt the heat of him against her, the tension that had been building all day now boiling over. She had pushed him to this point, and now it was clear that he was taking control.

His lips captured hers in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was demanding, possessive, a raw release of the restraint he had held for so long. She melted into him, her hands finding the hard planes of his chest, fingers clutching at his clothes as if she could pull him closer. He was relentless, taking what was his, his body pressing her back against the cold stone wall as his kiss deepened, claiming her with a force that left her breathless.

Cesare’s hands were everywhere, roaming over her skin, pulling at the fabric of her gown, each touch a reminder of the control he had regained.

When the kiss finally broke, Isabella’s lips were swollen, her breath ragged. Cesare pulled back just enough to look at her, his chest rising and falling in sync with hers. “You’ve tested me, Isabella,” he said, his voice still rough, but now softer, laden with something else—something far more possessive. “And now you will learn what happens when you cross that line.”

Isabella’s eyes sparkled with a mixture of excitement and challenge. “I have no regrets,” she whispered. “Do you?”

Cesare’s lips curved into a smile—dark, dangerous, and filled with promises of what was to come. “No,” he replied. “I don’t.”

And as the night stretched on, the games they had played earlier gave way to something far more intense—an undeniable, powerful bond forged in desire, anger, and unrelenting need.

[neonlight2]

The Price of Power

Masterlist

...

The Pope’s chambers were as lavish as they were suffocating. Rodrigo Borgia, dressed in his papal robes, sat behind his desk, his fingers steepled as he looked at his son. The weight of his office hung heavily on his shoulders, but in this moment, his thoughts were consumed by a much more personal matter. His eyes were fixed on Cesare, his eldest son, a man capable of commanding armies and shaping the destiny of Italy, yet there was a dark shadow in his eyes, one that his father knew well.

“Cesare,” Rodrigo began, his voice low but firm. “I have made arrangements for Isabella.”

Cesare’s eyes narrowed, and he straightened, his posture rigid. “Arrangements?”

Rodrigo nodded, a small smile playing on his lips as he shifted his weight in the chair. “I have set up several suitors for her—men of power and wealth. She will choose one to marry, and it will strengthen our family. You know how these things work.” He looked at Cesare with an almost knowing gaze. “She is not a child anymore. She must understand her place in the world.”

Cesare clenched his jaw, his heart tightening at the thought of Isabella being claimed by another. She was not just some pawn to be married off for political gain. She was *his*. Yet, he knew better than to voice his feelings too openly. His father was a man of many schemes, and this was just another one of his manipulations.

“You think she will accept this?” Cesare’s voice was calm, though it was laced with something darker. “That she will simply choose one of your suitors?”

Rodrigo’s smile deepened. “She has no choice. It is her duty to the family. I have already spoken to her, and she understands.”

Cesare’s gaze turned hard, his fingers twitching slightly as the idea of losing Isabella gnawed at him. “She will choose,” he repeated, more to himself than to his father. Then, a dangerous idea crossed his mind, something that would keep Isabella where she truly belonged—beside him.

Rodrigo, sensing the tension in the air, leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “Yes, she will choose. And you, Cesare, will have no say in it.”

Cesare met his father’s eyes with a cold, calculating stare. “We shall see.”

---

Later that evening, Isabella was seated in the family’s private garden, her fingers nervously plucking at the fabric of her gown as she stared out at the moonlit path ahead. The news of the suitors had come as a shock, but there was something in her that had already known it was inevitable. She had grown up under the watchful eye of her adopted father, and she had always understood her place in his plans.

What unsettled her was the thought of leaving behind everything she knew—*everyone* she knew.

Footsteps disturbed the silence, and she turned to see Cesare emerging from the shadows, his dark eyes studying her as always. He did not smile; he never did when he was troubled. And tonight, he looked troubled.

“Isabella,” he began, his voice soft but edged with something she could not name. “I hear you have suitors.”

Her heart sank, but she didn’t show it. “I hear you have arranged them.” Her words were sharp, a reflection of the bitterness growing within her.

Cesare’s lips twitched into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Your father’s plan,” he said, approaching her. “Men of status. Men who will… help the family. Secure alliances.”

“You think I will just choose one of them?” Isabella asked, her voice trembling slightly. She was angry, but beneath the anger, there was a deep, aching fear. Fear of being taken from the only life she knew, fear of losing what she held dear.

Cesare’s eyes softened as he crouched beside her, his presence overwhelming, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “I’m sure it will be a difficult choice. But you must choose, Isabella. You have no other option.”

“No other option?” she echoed, her voice rising. “What about *you*? What about the family we’ve built together?” She stood suddenly, her emotions spilling over. “Why does it always have to be about *politics* and *alliances*? Why can’t I choose who I want?”

Cesare remained calm, his gaze unwavering. He stood slowly, his hand slipping from her shoulder. “Because the choices you make affect everyone. The family, the people. And we are Borgia. Our duty is to Rome, not to personal desire.”

Isabella’s breath hitched in her throat. Her feelings for Cesare—what they had been, what they had become—were tangled in a web of confusion and longing. She had been raised beside him, shared moments of quiet tenderness, shared laughter, and fleeting smiles. But there had always been something more beneath it. Something neither of them had dared to acknowledge.

“I can’t choose,” she whispered, staring at him as if he could give her the answer. “I can’t bear to leave everything behind.”

Cesare’s voice dropped lower, thick with meaning. “Then let me help you.”

---

The following days were filled with the parade of suitors. The men were grand, imposing figures—men with titles, wealth, and influence. One after another, they arrived, each offering his hand in marriage, each offering something more than the last.

Isabella sat through their courtship with a polite smile, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Her gaze often wandered to Cesare, who watched every interaction with a quiet, simmering intensity. Each suitor tried his best to impress her, but none seemed to fit. None had the fire that Cesare carried, the force of will that could not be ignored.

After the fourth suitor had left, Cesare stood up, his eyes flashing as he approached Isabella. “Do you truly think you will find what you need in these men?” he asked, his tone sharp. “They are weak. Petty. Their kingdoms are small, their ambitions even smaller.”

“I have no choice,” she replied, her voice breaking slightly. “This is my duty.”

Cesare’s gaze darkened as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “You *do* have a choice, Isabella. You always have.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he reached out to touch her cheek. His fingers were cold, but his gaze burned through her. She felt her resolve falter, felt the pull of him—strong, unyielding.

“I’ve been watching them, Isabella. Watching you. And I see now that you were never meant for them.” His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “You were meant for *me*.”

And in that moment, Isabella knew that the decision had already been made for her. She had never been able to choose between duty and desire—but Cesare had. He was her choice. And she was his.

Without another word, he kissed her. The world around them seemed to fall away as his lips crushed against hers, possessive and insistent. She kissed him back with equal fervor, her hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer, deeper.

There was no turning back. Not now. Not ever.

Cesare Borgia had claimed her, body and soul.

[neonlight2]

Bound by Blood and Fire

Masterlist

...

I. Childhood – A Hand to Hold

Rome was a strange place for an orphaned girl.

Isabella had arrived at the Borgia household as a child, too young to understand what it meant to be taken in by a family as infamous as this one. She was not of their blood, but Rodrigo Borgia had called her figlia all the same, and Lucrezia had wrapped her small hands around Isabella’s as if she had always been meant to be a sister.

But it was Cesare who made her feel safe.

He was a boy of sharp smiles and quick tempers, already burdened with the weight of expectations. When Juan teased her for being only a girl, it was Cesare who struck him across the face. When Isabella’s first winter in Rome brought sickness that left her trembling, it was Cesare who sat by her bed, his hand wrapped around hers, whispering, You are one of us.

Isabella, in turn, followed him everywhere. She trusted him more than she trusted the world, her small fingers curling around his sleeve when the Vatican halls grew too cold, too vast.

Neither of them knew, then, what it meant—only that they belonged to each other.

---

II. Adolescence – The First Spark

It started with a dance.

She was fifteen, he seventeen, and the halls of the Vatican glowed with candlelight. It was a night of celebration, but Isabella had never liked these gatherings. She was too aware of the way men’s eyes followed her now, how they whispered about her future—who she would marry, who she would serve.

Cesare watched them watch her.

When a French nobleman reached for her hand, Cesare was suddenly there, his grip firm as he pulled her away.

“You don’t wish to dance, do you, mia sorella?” he asked, voice light, but his fingers tight at her waist.

She could have told him no. Could have insisted that she was fine, that she could handle herself.

But his hand was warm against hers, and when he led her into the dance, it felt… right.

His touch lingered longer than it should. When he spun her, his gaze burned hotter than any brother’s should. And when the music stopped, neither of them let go.

It was the first time Isabella wondered— what if we were not brother and sister at all?

---

III. Young Adulthood – The Jealousy that Betrayed Them

Lucrezia was betrothed, and Rome was filled with talk of alliances and duty.

Isabella had always known she, too, would be used as a pawn. It was the price of being raised a Borgia. But the reality of it became unbearable when Cesare spoke of marriage as if it were inevitable for her.

“You will need a husband soon,” he told her one evening, as they walked through the gardens.

She laughed, sharp and bitter. “You say that as if you are not the one who has driven away half my suitors.”

Cesare halted. “They were unworthy of you.”

“They were mine to choose.”

His jaw tensed. “You do not understand the dangers of this world.”

“And you do?” she shot back. “You think because you wield a sword and whisper in the Pope’s ear that you can decide my fate?”

Cesare stepped closer, and she did not step back.

“I would burn Rome before I let another man have you,” he murmured.

She gasped softly. The words hung between them, fragile and damning.

And Isabella knew, in that moment, that whatever they had once been—children, siblings, family— was long gone.

---

IV. The Confession – No Turning Back

It was late when Isabella found him in his chambers, hands stained with ink and worry. War loomed, the Pope schemed, and the weight of it all rested on Cesare’s shoulders.

She did not speak. She only walked forward, standing before him, waiting.

Cesare looked up. “You should not be here.”

“You always say that,” she whispered.

And yet, he never sent her away.

His hand reached for her—hesitant, uncertain. But when she took it, when she guided it to rest against her heart, something in him broke.

“I cannot love you as a brother,” he admitted, voice raw.

“Then do not,” she whispered.

She kissed him before he could say anything else.

And Cesare, the man who had torn down kingdoms for ambition, who had killed for power, surrendered completely.

[neonlight2]

The Line Between Us

Masterlist

...

Isabella’s Realization

The Vatican halls whispered with intrigue, but Isabella had learned long ago to listen for the silences—the moments before a dagger struck. Tonight, there was no silence.

The banquet in the Pope’s chambers had dissolved into excess. Cardinals drank deeply, Juan boasted loudly, and Lucrezia, sweet Lucrezia, played the perfect hostess. But Isabella was not fooled by the wine or the laughter.

Cesare had not left her side all evening.

She turned her head slightly, glancing at him. He sat too close—closer than a brother should. His fingers rested on the stem of his goblet, his posture languid, yet his sharp gaze flickered over every man who so much as looked at her.

It was not the first time she noticed it.

When the Venetian envoy pressed a kiss to her hand, Cesare had smiled—thin, dangerous. The envoy’s wine had been watered down for the rest of the evening. When a young soldier attempted to escort her through the halls, Cesare had spoken to him later. The man had been reassigned beyond Rome.

She should have feared it. Instead, she felt a slow, twisting heat unfurl inside her.

She let her hand brush against his under the table, testing. Cesare’s fingers curled around hers in an instant, possessive and firm. He turned his head slightly, his lips barely moving.

"Mine."

The word was silent, but she heard it. Felt it. And she knew—he had always been hers, just as she had always been his.

---

Cesare’s Realization

Blood stained his hands.

The man at his feet was still breathing, but not for long. Cesare stood above him, wiping his blade clean with deliberate slowness.

Isabella was watching.

She should have recoiled at the sight. Should have turned away, gasped, prayed. But she did none of those things.

Instead, she stepped forward. Not away—forward. Toward him.

Her dark eyes flickered to the dying man, then back to Cesare. There was no horror in them. No plea for mercy. Only an understanding that sent a vicious thrill through him.

“You did this for me,” she murmured.

It was not a question.

Cesare let out a slow breath. *Yes*, he had. The man had threatened her, spoken of her as if she were something to be won. He had been wrong. Isabella belonged to no one.

Except—

She took his bloodstained hand in hers, raising it to her lips. Her kiss was soft, reverent, leaving a trace of warmth against the violence.

Something inside Cesare shattered.

He had been obsessed with her for so long, tangled in a devotion he could never name. But here she was, unafraid. Here she was, taking him as he was.

She had always been his. But now—

Now, he was hers.

And God help anyone who tried to take her from him.

[neonlight2]

Secrets in the Garden

Masterlist

...

The evening air was thick with jasmine as Isabella watched Lady Elena tend to the roses in the Vatican gardens. The noblewoman's dark curls fell loose around her shoulders, defying Roman fashion, and her olive skin seemed to glow in the fading light. Isabella found herself mesmerized by the graceful movement of Elena's hands among the thorns.

"You're staring again, sister."

Isabella startled at Cesare's voice, nearly dropping the book she'd been pretending to read. He settled beside her on the stone bench, a knowing smirk playing at his lips.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort," she muttered, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

"No?" He stretched lazily, like a cat who'd found cream. "Then I suppose you've developed a sudden passion for..." He glanced at her book, "...treatises on agricultural management?"

Isabella snapped the book shut, realizing she'd been holding it upside down. "I find it fascinating."

"Almost as fascinating as Lady Elena's... gardening techniques?" His eyes danced with amusement. "Though I must admit, she does handle those roses with remarkable skill."

"Don't you have papal duties to attend to?" Isabella hissed, but there was no real venom in it.

"And miss this entertainment? I think not." He plucked the book from her hands. "Though I'm surprised. I always thought you preferred the company of that dull Duke."

"That was different," she said softly. "That was just to..."

"To make me jealous?" His smile turned sharp. "Yes, I remember. This, however..." He nodded toward Elena, who was now humming softly to herself as she worked. "This is genuine. I can see it in your eyes."

Isabella felt shame curl in her stomach, hot and heavy. She stood abruptly, meaning to flee, but Cesare caught her wrist.

"Where are you going?"

"To pray for my soul," she said bitterly. "Isn't that what good Christians do when they harbor such... such..."

"Desires?" Cesare's voice lost its teasing edge. He pulled her back down, his grip gentler now. "Tell me, sister, do you think God makes mistakes?"

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "The church says—"

"The church says many things," he interrupted, his cardinal's robes suddenly seeming ironically appropriate. "The church said it was a sin when I first picked up a sword, that a man of God should never spill blood. Yet here I am, both cardinal and warrior. The church says many things about you and me as well, does it not?"

Finally, she looked at him. "That's different."

"Is it?" He reached out, brushing a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "Love is love, Isabella. Whether it blooms in expected gardens or not." His mouth quirked. "Though in this case, quite literally in a garden."

Despite herself, she laughed. "You're terrible."

"So I've been told." He stood, straightening his robes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I actually do have papal duties to attend to. But Isabella?" He paused, his expression serious. "Don't shame yourself for the capacity to love. That's what makes you human." A wicked grin spread across his face. "Besides, Lady Elena has been stealing glances at you all afternoon. Your agricultural studies might not be in vain after all."

With that, he strode away, leaving Isabella alone with her thoughts. In the garden, Elena had moved to the white roses, her fingers dancing over petals as pale as moon-glow. When she looked up, their eyes met, and this time, Isabella didn't look away.

Perhaps Cesare was right. In a family that dealt in power and politics, real love – in any form – was too precious to deny. She stood, smoothing her skirts, and walked toward the rose garden. After all, she suddenly found herself very interested in learning about flowers.