10. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Bianca
"Y es. Take me," I breathe, looking at the devil himself. "Please."
Luca’s voice rumbles low, a dark promise in a language I barely register. One moment he’s standing, the next, I’m crashing backward onto the bed, legs parting instinctively, trembling from pleasure that hasn’t even landed yet.
The silken sheets catch me like liquid midnight, cool against my flushed skin. My body burns everywhere he’s touched—worse, everywhere he hasn’t .
The mattress cradles my curves as I sink into a luxury I’ve never known.
But he’s the real luxury. The real danger.
I’m trembling beneath him, my body betraying every ounce of pride I’ve clung to since he dragged me from that hotel room and forced me up at that altar.
Luca kneels between my thighs. His hands grip my knees, spreading me wider as he looms above me— watching . That’s the part that ruins me most.
I should scream. I should run. I should fight. But I just lie there, legs spread, aching for something I can’t even name.
I could consider myself a lucky girl.
Woman would kill for a man like this to tear them apart. To wreck their body, their soul… their hearts.
Luca's body is a landscape of brutal elegance, every muscle carved with a ruthless precision that steals my breath. The tattoos etched into his skin aren't just ink; they're stories, dark whispers of a life I can barely comprehend.
My gaze traces the lines of a phrase written in bold, black script along his collarbone. Nel sangue il potere . I don’t know what it means, but it sounds like a threat wrapped in prophecy.
I shudder.
Scars mar his chest, each one a symbol of the danger I face in his violent world. There's a clean, thin line along his ribs, a whisper of a hit gone wrong maybe.
My fingers itch to trace it, to feel the history ingrained in his flesh.
Instead, my hands slide up my own body, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of my breasts as Luca's mouth locks in at the side of my neck. He bites down and a soft gasp escapes my lips as I roll my nipples between my fingers, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core.
Luca lifts his head, watches me twirl with my own nipples. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide, and when he leans in, I think he might growl. Might punish me.
I know I should be afraid, should be fighting to escape. But all I can think about is how much I want him to consume me. To claim me. To make me his.
No. No, I don’t want this.
But my hips lift. My lips part. And my soaked thighs say otherwise.
Luca’s mouth moves over my skin, each drag of his tongue igniting something low and dangerous in my stomach.
“I won’t be gentle, Bianca,” he growls, teeth scraping the edge of my jaw. “I’m going to ruin you. And you’re going to let me.”
A tremor runs through me. Not fear. Not quite pleasure either. Something darker.
I don’t answer. I can’t. My breath is already fractured, caught between the person I thought I was and the thing I’m becoming.
His eyes catch mine, gray and cold and gleaming with something that doesn’t feel like lust—it feels like possession.
Then he thrusts into me, sharp and sudden, and the breath is ripped from my lungs in one strangled cry.
“Fuck!” I gasp, fingers scrabbling against his forearms, unsure whether I’m trying to hold on—or push him away.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ask again.
I've given him my word, and for a man of this power, that's enough to take what's his. He won't be told twice.
He smirks above me, hips rolling until he's deep inside me. "That's it."
Each movement is merciless. Not tender. Not kind. Just raw conquest, like he’s carving his name inside me with every brutal stroke.
His hand finds my throat, tight enough to hold, not choke. Not yet. It feels more like a warning, caught somewhere between a claim and a leash that hasn't quite been tightened all the way yet.
“You’re mine, Bianca,” he breathes, his voice pressed into my ear like a knife. “Say it.”
I shake my head, eyes squeezed shut. But my body? My body won’t play along.
I’m clenching around him, soaking for him. I hate that I feel full, owned, branded. And I hate even more that I don’t want him to stop.
He snarls when I don’t answer. “Still pretending you’re not begging for it?” His hand tightens around my neck. “Then I’ll fuck the truth out of you.”
He slams deeper, hitting a spot that makes my vision white out . My nails rake his back, tearing flesh.
“Luca—”
“Say it,” he commands again. “Say who owns this pussy.”
I want to spit in his face. I want to curse him. But all that comes out is a broken, high-pitched moan that betrays me just as much as my hips spreading wider for him does.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, smug and savage.
He pounds into me again. And again. And again.
Each thrust forces another crack through my defenses, shatters another brick in the wall I’ve spent a lifetime building.
I arch into him. Not to fight. To feel .
“You feel that?” he growls, his hips grinding in brutal circles. “That’s how deep I am. That’s how deep you belong to me.”
His ring catches the light as I claw down his back—a flash of gold against his skin. It’s on my finger too now. A matching set. His crest, his curse.
I bite my lip, tears stinging my eyes—not from pain. From the fact that it feels so fucking good .
He’s wrecking me. And I want more.
God help me, I want more.
“I’m going to fill you up,” he snarls. “I’m going to come so deep inside this cunt you’ll taste me for days.”
My thighs shake. My core pulses. I want to scream at him to stop—and I want to beg him to never stop again.
His fingers dig into my thighs, rough and merciless. I’ll find the bruises later. His fingerprints stamped into my flesh like proof. Red crescents of ownership.
And somehow I already know I won’t stop staring at them.
“Please,” I whisper.
That breaks him.
He slams in deeper, hips snapping with brutal force. His mouth claims mine in a kiss that isn’t sweet or soft. It’s war. A collision of teeth and tongue and blood.
He kisses like he fucks—like it’s a battle and he’s already won.
“Come,” he growls against my lips. “Now. On my cock. Let them all hear who you belong to.”
His words tip me over the edge.
I come with a cry I can’t silence, the kind of orgasm that shatters something essential. Shame rises with it, because even as I splinter around him, even as my body clings to his like he’s oxygen and I’m drowning…
I want him. I want this. And that truth is the sharpest betrayal of all.
My whole body clenches around him, pulsing, aching.
And when I feel him follow me—when I feel him groan low and dark and spill inside me—I know it’s done.
There’s no going back.
The worst part? I didn’t hate it. I begged for it. And tomorrow, I’ll lie to myself and say I didn’t mean it. That I didn't choose this.
Except I did. Just like I did in that hotel room.
I did choose all of this.
He leans down, his mouth capturing mine in a savage kiss that feels like he's just sealed our fate for eternity. His tongue invades my mouth, mimicking the thrusts of his cock, and then finally, he lays down beside me.
I stare at the ornate ceiling, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. The carved angels mock me from above, their faces twisted into something that looks more like judgment than salvation.
My body aches. Throbs. Burns. But not from pain.
From want .
I press my thighs together, feeling the evidence of what just happened slick between them. My skin bears his marks—fingerprints on my hips, bite marks on my breasts, the burning fire of his hand around my throat.
Beside me, Luca's breathing starts to slow.
I don't dare look at him. Can't bear to see the triumph I know will be etched across his face. Instead, I watch the shadows play across his chest from the corner of my eye, making his tattoos seem to move like living things.
The tattoo bishop over his heart seems to stare at me. Accusing. You let him take you. You begged for it.
My eyes burn. With tears? Rage? I'm not sure anymore.
I turn on my side slowly, taking inventory of every ache. My thighs burn. My lips feel swollen. There's a tender spot on my neck from his teeth. Each twinge is a reminder of what I've become—what I allowed myself to become.
His bride. His possession. His.
I close my eyes, remembering the cathedral. Not the vows or the priest, but the power that had filled that sacred space. Men with scars on their knuckles and death in their eyes. Women dripping in diamonds who assessed me like I was livestock at auction. The silent nods exchanged. The measured distance kept from Luca's father.
These are my people now. Not people at all— predators . And I'm swimming among them without knowing how deep the bloodied water goes.
The mattress shifts. I tense, expecting more demands, more claiming or fierce hands flipping me on all fours again now he's had a chance to catch his breath.
Instead, Luca moves with a quiet, primal grace that reminds me of something ancient and dangerous. He rises naked from the bed, muscles shifting beneath marked skin as he pads toward a door I hadn't noticed before.
He's leaving. He's done with me.
I exhale, relief and something like disappointment tangling in my chest.
But then seconds later, he returns, holding a crystal glass of water in one hand and a cloth in the other. The cloth is warm and smells of lavender as he presses it between my thighs, cleaning away the evidence of what we've done. His touch is... gentle. Clinical, almost.
He collects a second towel from his side and wipes my brow next, then my neck where his mouth has left its mark.
"Drink," he commands, holding the glass to my lips.
I obey, water spilling slightly down my chin. He catches the droplet with his thumb.
"Is this drugged too?" My voice comes out hoarse from screaming his name earlier.
Luca's eyes flash in the dim light, a predator's gleam. His thumb traces my bottom lip where water has spilled.
"You don't need it tonight." His gaze drops to where the sheet barely covers my breasts. "The pleasure in your eyes ensures a peaceful sleep."
Heat floods my cheeks at his words. At the truth in them. My body still tingles from his touch, aftershocks of pleasure making me shift against the silk sheets.
"I wasn't—" I start to protest, but his finger presses against my lips.
"Lie to yourself if you must." His voice drops lower, dangerous. "But never lie to me."
When I'm finished, he takes the glass away and pulls the sheet up around my shoulders, tucking it around me like I'm something precious. Something that needs protection.
His eyes never soften. His possessiveness doesn't falter for a moment. But this—this feels like care.
And I don't know what to do with the tenderness of it. It almost hurts more than the sex.
I lie perfectly still as Luca settles back beside me, his arm heavy across my waist. His palm splays flat against my stomach, fingers spread wide like he's measuring the space between my ribs.
“Sleep now,” he murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from my temple. “Tomorrow, you wake as mine.”
But sleep won't come. My mind races, trying to make sense of what just happened between us. What's happening to me .
Is this what they call Stockholm syndrome? Falling for your captor because he's the only constant in your new reality? Or is it trauma bonding—clinging to the man who both threatens and protects me?
I should hate him. I should be plotting my escape. Instead, I'm replaying the way his hands gentled on my skin. The way his eyes darkened when I moaned his name.
I'm broken. I must be. Cracked open and remade into something I don't recognize.
But then I remember that moment—just before he entered me—when our eyes locked. Something flashed there. Something raw and wounded. Not the calculated predator, but a man with ghosts behind his eyes. Ghosts that seemed to quiet when his body joined with mine.
Nothing about Luca Ravelli follows any logic I've ever known.
He threatens to break me, then treats my body like it's precious. He forces me to marry him, then asks permission to take me. He calls me his possession, then tends to me after with hands that could kill but choose to soothe instead.
His breathing deepens beside me, and I risk turning my head to look at him.
Even in sleep, Luca looks dangerous. His jaw clenched, one arm flung above his head, the other still anchoring me to him. The moonlight from the window cuts across his face, highlighting the scar that runs through his eyebrow.
He's a god of war, momentarily at rest.
I study the lines of his face, softened slightly in unconsciousness.
His muscles twitch beneath tattooed skin. His brow furrows like he's fighting battles even in his dreams. What does a man like Luca Ravelli fear in the darkness of sleep?
His lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. His lips, which had been so cruel and demanding against mine, now slightly parted.
He looks... human.
The realization hits me. I might be the only person alive who's seen him like this. Completely unguarded. Vulnerable in a way I'm sure he rarely is. No weapons. No guards.
He's the beast with his teeth momentarily sheathed.
I shift closer, drawn by some magnetic pull I can't explain. His heat radiates, wrapping around me as I slide in against his side. The arm across my waist tightens reflexively.
Even in sleep, he claims.
My heart pounds against my ribs, a caged thing trying to escape. Or maybe trying to break free just to give itself back to him willingly.
I don't know anymore.
I want to hate him. I need to hate him.
But my skin still bears the marks of his passion. And something deeper than survival instinct makes me want to curl into his warmth, to let his steady breathing lull me into whatever dark dreams he inhabits.
This is madness. This is ruin.
I've become a living paradox: terrified of staying, terrified of leaving. Caught between the monster who claimed me and the man who just showed me pleasure I never knew existed.
The scariest part isn't that he owns me now.
It's that some wild, broken piece of me might want him to.