Chapter 6 #2
His hand settles more firmly on my thigh, possessive and warm through the thin fabric of my dress. Not moving higher, just resting there, claiming that inch of me like he claims everything else.
"Your pulse is racing," he observes, thumb stroking once along my inner thigh. "But not from fear."
I turn my face to the window, unable to look at him. Unable to face what I'm becoming. "You're wrong."
"Liar." His hand tightens slightly. "You're dripping right now. Aching for me to slide my hand higher, to find out how wet your pussy is from my rough handling. I can smell it, that sweet scent of your arousal getting stronger."
The crude truth makes me bite my lip hard enough to taste copper. Because he's right. I want his hand to move higher. Want him to feel what he does to me. Want him to take what my body is offering even as my mind screams in protest.
This is my defeat. Not the forced marriage or the gilded cage. This, my body choosing him despite everything, this is how I lose myself.
"I still hate you," I whisper, the last resistance I have left.
"I know." His thumb strokes my thigh again, and I have to suppress a whimper. "It doesn't matter. Hate me all you want, principessa."
The rest of the ride passes in unbearable tension, his hand never moving from my thigh, my arousal never fading. By the time we reach the penthouse garage, I'm trembling with need and self-loathing in equal measure.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Marco's eyes flick to me but he doesn't stop me from checking it.
Alice: Val, are you okay? Dad won't tell me anything. Says you're on your honeymoon but I know that's not true.
My throat tightens. My baby sister, probably terrified, definitely confused. My fingers hover over the keyboard.
"Answer her," Marco says, reading my hesitation. "Tell her you're fine."
"Am I allowed?"
"She's your sister. Family matters to Rosettis." His hand tightens slightly on my thigh. "But choose your words carefully. I'll be reading over your shoulder."
I type slowly, aware of his eyes on the screen: I'm okay. Different situation than planned but I'm safe.
Alice: Where are you? Can I see you?
"Tell her no," Marco instructs.
Me: Soon.
Alice: Val, you're scaring me. Is this about the Irish? About Liam?
My fingers freeze. Marco takes the phone from my hand, types something, and hands it back. He's written: Liam's not a problem anymore. Focus on your studies. I love you.
"Send it," he commands softly.
I hit send, hating how the truth wrapped in lies sounds exactly like something I'd write. Three dots appear immediately—Alice typing—but Marco powers off my phone.
"She's safe as long as you behave," he reminds me. "Remember that when you think about rebellion."
Back in the penthouse, I stand surrounded by shopping bags worth a fortune.
The red gown catches the light, silk gleaming like fresh blood. I should burn it. Should destroy everything he bought, refuse to wear a single piece. But my fingers trace the fabric, remembering the hunger in his eyes when I emerged in it, the way his control cracked for just a moment.
"That one looked best," Marco says from the doorway. He's removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, looking devastatingly casual. The way the white shirt stretches across his chest makes my mouth go dry. "You'll wear it to Sunday dinner."
"I don't want it." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
"Liar." He moves closer, and I hate how my body immediately responds, nipples sensitive, pulse jumping. "You want to wear it. Want to see that look in my eyes again, that moment when my control almost broke."
"You're delusional."
"You're losing, principessa." He stops just out of reach, but his presence fills the room, makes my skin prickle with awareness. "Every day, you lose a little more ground. Your body has already surrendered. It's just waiting for your mind to accept defeat."
He moves to where I'm holding the red dress, his fingers trailing over the silk with the same possessive touch he uses on my skin. The gesture makes my breath catch, imagining those hands on me instead of the fabric.
"Sunday's dinner is in three days." He turns back to me, and the look in his eyes makes my knees weak. Dark promise mixed with barely contained hunger. "When you wear this…"
He crosses to me in two strides, backing me against the wall. His hand braces beside my head, body caging mine without quite touching. I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell his cologne mixing with something uniquely him: raw masculinity.
"When you wear this," he continues, voice dropping to that gravelly tone that haunts my dreams, "every man at that table will know exactly who you belong to. Every woman will see what I've claimed. And principessa…"
His free hand comes up, thumb barely grazing my bottom lip. The touch is feather-light but might as well be a brand for how it burns. "I won't be the only one whose control breaks."
The threat, or promise, hangs between us, electric and dangerous. His eyes drop to my mouth, and for one breathless moment, I think he's going to kiss me. My traitorous body yearns for it, lips parting slightly, back arching just enough to brush my breasts against his chest.
But he steps back, that infuriating control sliding back into place even as I see his hands flex with the effort of not touching me. The loss of his heat leaves me cold and aching.
"Three days," he says, heading for the door. "Try not to touch yourself too much thinking about it. I want you desperate when the time comes."
The door closes behind him with a soft click that echoes through my body. I'm left trembling against the wall, breathing hard, squirming to ease the ache he's built and abandoned.
My fingers find Mother's rosary again, but even her memory can't cool the fire he's lit in my blood.
I'm not just losing this war.
I'm starting to wonder if I want to win it at all.
Later that night, I can't sleep. The red dress hangs in the closet like a taunt, and my skin still burns from everywhere he didn't touch. The penthouse is quiet—Marco left for "business" hours ago, and the guards are posted outside, not in.
I slip from the bedroom in bare feet. The hallway stretches before me, moonlight painting silver paths across Italian marble. I've memorized the apartment's layout during my captivity, know which boards creak, which doors are always locked.
His study door is cracked open.
I shouldn't. It's probably a trap, another test. But the glimpse of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves draws me like a magnet. I push the door wider, breath held.
The study is magnificent and intimidating, just like its owner.
Dark wood, leather chairs that probably cost more than cars, and books.
Thousands of books lining three walls, their spines catching the city lights through the windows.
First editions, rare manuscripts, texts in Latin, Italian, Russian.
My fingers trail along the shelves, reading titles.
Philosophy, history, poetry—and then I find them.
An entire section devoted to warfare and strategy.
Sun Tzu, Clausewitz, Machiavelli, Caesar's Commentaries.
These aren't showpieces; the spines are worn from use, some bookmarked with strips of leather.
I pull out "On War" by Clausewitz, flipping through pages covered in Marco's handwriting. His notes are meticulous, connecting historical battles to current territory disputes, analyzing where generals failed and why. His mind works in layers I hadn't expected from a mere thug with a gun.
A bitter smile curves my lips. Perfect.
I select three books—ones with the most extensive notes—and tuck them under my arm. If he wants to control my body, my movements, my clothes, fine. But he doesn't get to control my mind. These books will be my small rebellion, my fuck you to his authority.
Back in my room, I hide them under the mattress like contraband. Which, in a way, they are. Tomorrow, when he's gone again, I'll read every note he's made. Learn how his mind works. Find his weaknesses.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll leave some notes of my own.
The thought makes me smile for the first time since he stole me from that altar. It's a small victory, probably meaningless, but it's mine.
I fall asleep dreaming of military defeats and margin notes written in defiance.