Chapter 7
Three Irish soldiers are in my husband’s penthouse, and I’m crouched behind his desk in a silk nightgown, counting their footsteps on Italian marble while Marco’s voice promises death.
"You picked the wrong fucking night."
Twelve days since he stole me from the altar, and Liam's pride has finally overridden his fear. The protocol Marco explained yesterday floods back: if anyone breaches the penthouse, hide behind his desk in the office. Don't come out until he says.
My heart slams against my ribs as I press myself smaller behind the massive desk.
The marble floor is ice against my bare feet, the thin nightgown offering no protection against the cold or the fear coursing through me.
I'd been dreaming of that red dress, of the hunger in Marco's eyes when he saw me in it, when the sound of breaking glass shattered my sleep mere hours after I'd finally drifted off.
Through the gap beneath the desk, I can see into the living room where shadows move in deadly choreography. More glass shatters, closer this time. The distinctive accent of Irish voices fills the space, harsh and threatening in the night.
"Where's the girl, Rosetti?"
"Come find out," Marco's voice is calm with a dark edge.
My hands shake as I pull my knees to my chest. Behind me, I hear furniture crash, something heavy hitting the wall with enough force to make the floor vibrate.
"The O'Briens want their bride back," one calls out. "Your theft dishonored our family."
"Three boys with knives?" Marco's laugh is soft, deadly. "This insults us both."
The first attacker moves, and Marco becomes something inhuman.
The precision of his violence steals my breath: one fluid motion to disarm, another to break the man's wrist, a third to drive a knife between his ribs.
The sound of breaking bone, wet and final, makes bile rise in my throat.
The Irish soldier drops, blood pooling on Italian marble.
I press my hand over my mouth to muffle my gasp. Iron floods my mouth where I've bitten my tongue to keep from screaming. This is what he is. What I've been sleeping beside for twelve nights. A killer who moves like death itself, beautiful and terrible both.
The remaining two soldiers advance together, knives gleaming in the city lights streaming through bulletproof glass. Marco shifts his stance, and I recognize the coiled tension of a predator preparing to strike. His cologne can't mask the metallic scent of blood anymore.
"You think you can just take what belongs to us?" The taller one lunges, blade slicing through air where Marco stood a heartbeat before.
But Marco's already moved, grabbed the man's knife hand, and twisted until bone snaps. The scream cuts short as Marco drives his knee into the attacker's temple. Another body hits the floor.
I watch from behind the desk, frozen in place, horrified yet unable to look away.
God help me, my nipples tighten beneath the silk as he moves.
Getting wet watching my husband kill men who came to rescue me.
But 'rescue' is just another word for 'ownership transfer,' and at least Marco's cage is familiar now.
The third attacker is smarter, more careful. He circles Marco like a wolf, looking for weakness. "She doesn't belong in your world, Rosetti. The Bernardi princess deserves better than being your prisoner."
"She's under my protection." Marco's voice drops to something lethal. "That's all that matters."
They clash with brutal efficiency, a violent dance of dodged strikes and blocked attacks. Marco's shirt tears, revealing the muscled chest I've been trying not to notice for weeks. Blood streaks across his skin like war paint, though not his own. Not yet.
The knife finally finds him. The blade catches his shoulder as he twists to avoid a killing blow, and red blooms across white fabric. Marco doesn't even flinch, just grabs the attacker's throat and squeezes until the man's eyes roll back. The body drops with a dull thud.
Three men dead in what felt like heartbeats, their blood painting my new reality across marble floors. The penthouse reeks of copper and violence. And Marco stands among the bodies like an avenging angel, beautiful in his brutality.
My legs won't stop shaking. I count the bodies: one, two, three. Like counting rosary beads. Three men dead in my living room. No, his living room. Everything here is his, including me. The thought terrifies me less than the corpses do, and that realization terrifies me most of all.
Blood drips steadily from Marco's shoulder, each drop a small crimson explosion on marble. He presses his hand to the wound, and when he pulls it away, his palm is slick and red.
"Valentina." His voice cuts through my paralysis. "You can come out."
I stand on shaking legs, unable to look away from the carnage. The cleanup crew will arrive soon. He mentioned them in passing once, how they make problems disappear.
"You're bleeding." The words escape before I can stop them.
"I'm fine."
But he's not. The wound is deep, still flowing, and his face has taken on a gray undertone that speaks of blood loss. He sways slightly, catches himself against the wall.
This is my moment of choice. He's wounded, vulnerable. The elevator might work if I can find his keycard. I could run while he's weak, escape this beautiful prison. But where would I go? Back to my father who sold me? To the Irish who just tried to retrieve me through violence?
Twelve days. That's all it took for me to choose my captor over my rescuers. Psychology textbooks would have a field day with me. But textbooks are written by people who've never had to choose between different versions of captivity.
"You need stitches." My voice sounds strange, too calm for someone standing among corpses. "Where's your medical kit?"
He stares at me like I've spoken in tongues. "You should be running."
"You're bleeding," I say as though that is an answer.
The cleanup crew arrives with quiet efficiency, body bags and bleach, making death disappear like it never happened. They work around us as I guide Marco to the bathroom.
"This is going to hurt," I warn, threading the needle from his medical kit.
"Can't be worse than watching you consider running." His eyes find mine, something raw beneath the pain. "I saw it. The moment you made your choice to stay."
"Yes." I press the needle through skin, watch him grip the counter. "I chose to help you instead."
My fingers remember this dance too well: thread through flesh, pull tight, tie off.
Mother's voice echoes in my memory: "Steady hands, tesoro.
Crying makes the stitches crooked." She'd get hurt sometimes, accidents she'd say, though we both knew better.
By the time I was twelve, I knew basic first aid, could handle minor wounds, before I even set foot in a medical lecture theater.
The night before Mom died, she'd had a split lip and bruised ribs. I'd helped her then, too.
"You've done this before." Not a question.
"I trained. Plus… my mother." The memories make my voice catch. "Before she died. Father would… she'd get hurt. And I would help her after. She taught me basic first aid, said every woman should know how to take care of herself."
His hand catches mine, stilling my work. "He hurt her?"
"Sometimes." I pull free, continue stitching. "She taught me to be prepared. I became good at it. Too good."
As I clean his blood from my hands, I see Mother's hands in mine: steady despite everything, competent in crisis. She taught me to handle wounds. Now I'm healing my captor's. The irony burns my throat.
"She tried to leave once," I continue, the words spilling out. "That's when things got worse. That's when I really learned how to help, how to handle the aftermath."
The wound is clean now, closed with neat stitches that will leave a minimal scar. I dab antiseptic on the area, feel him tense at the sting. This close, I can smell his cologne mixed with blood and sweat and bleach, a combination that makes my pussy clench despite everything.
"There." I step back, but his hand catches my wrist, gentle where Father's grip would have bruised.
"He won't touch you," Marco says softly. "Ever. I promise you that."
"He already sold me." The memories of Mother's suffering are making my throat tight. "Just like he destroyed her."
"But you survived." He pulls me closer, and I don't resist. "You learned to heal what violence broke. That's not weakness, principessa. That's strength."
Standing here in his bathroom, my hands still bloody from tending his wound, the memories of Mother's suffering fresh in my mind, something shifts between us. An understanding that we've both been shaped by violence: him as the inflictor, me as the witness to its aftermath.
I can't stop shaking.
Hours have passed since the attack, but every time I close my eyes, I see bodies on marble, blood pooling in perfect light. The far edge of his bed where I've been sleeping feels too exposed, even though the security system has been repaired and two guards now patrol the hallway.
I lie rigid on my side of the California king, as far from him as the mattress allows, but it's not enough.
The shadows seem to move, every sound makes me flinch.
What would Mother think, seeing me wish for comfort from my captor?
But Mother's dead, and I'm alive, and being alive means surviving however I can.
"I can't sleep." The admission burns. "I keep seeing them. Hearing them."
"Come here." His voice is rough with pain or exhaustion.
I should refuse. Should maintain what little distance remains between us. But the nightmares are louder than my pride, so I slide across the space between us until I'm pressed against his uninjured side.
"I need…" I start, then stop, unsure how to ask.
"What do you need?" His voice is gentle in the darkness.
"Just… hold me. Please." The words burn with vulnerability.
His arm comes around me, careful of his injury, pulling me closer against him. I press my face into his bare chest, breathing in his scent, letting his heartbeat drown out the echoes of violence. His hand strokes my hair with surprising gentleness.
"I'll always protect you," he murmurs against my hair, the words a vow and a claim. "No one touches what's mine. Not the Irish, not your father, not anyone who draws breath in my city."
"This doesn't change anything," I whisper into his skin, even as my body molds itself against his.
"I know." His lips brush my hair. "But let me comfort you tonight. Let me hold you until the nightmares fade. You're protected here, principessa. Always protected."
And somehow, surrounded by his warmth, sheltered in his arms, I believe him. The comfort he offers seeps into my bones, chasing away the terror. His heartbeat steady beneath my ear, his arms strong around me, keeping the darkness at bay.
My eyes grow heavy, exhaustion finally winning over fear.
The last coherent thought I have is how perfectly I fit against him: every curve finding its place against his hard planes.
How right this feels, even though it shouldn't.
How my body recognizes his as safety, as home, even as my mind rebels against the thought.
I drift into sleep, safe in my captor's arms, his warmth chasing away the cold terror of the night.
When I wake, the first thing I'll feel is his cock pressed against my back, hard and insistent in the morning light. And the first choice I'll make is whether to pull away, or push back against him, finally surrendering to this hunger that's been building for twelve days.
But that's tomorrow's battle. Tonight, I let myself have this: his protection, his comfort, his arms holding me like I'm something precious rather than something owned.