Chapter 22
M elania's breathing slows against my chest, her body going slack as sleep finally claims her. I hold her close, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her ribs beneath my arm. Her hair spills across my bicep and soft strands catch on the rough calluses of my fingers.
Three hours. We've been tangled in each other for three fucking hours and I still want more. But she needs rest more than I need satisfaction.
I trace the curve of her spine with my fingertips, careful not to wake her.
Her skin is marked with evidence of my possession—faint bruises forming where my fingers dug into her hips, a reddened patch on her throat where my hand had claimed her.
She'll wear my marks tomorrow, hidden beneath whatever clothes she chooses, but we'll both know they're there.
I know what this was—at least partly. She needed to feel something other than the horror of pulling that trigger.
Needed to replace the image of death with something primal and alive.
Not that she didn't want me—the chemistry between us has been building since I first saw her in that wedding dress—but tonight's urgency came from somewhere darker.
I've seen it before. The desperate need to fuck away the memory of your first kill. To prove you're still human after taking a life.
But unlike the empty encounters I've had after bloody nights, this was something else entirely. Something I haven't felt before—not with Violet, not with anyone.
Melania shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I don't understand before settling again. Her hand rests on my chest, right above my heart, her mother's ring cool against my skin. Even asleep, she seeks connection.
Then a realization hits me with unexpected force: I'm not leaving her. She's mine now, whether she fully comprehends it yet or not.
Unless in the morning she tells me to fuck off.
That's the one condition I'll respect. If she looks me in the eye and says she doesn't want this—doesn't want me—I'll let her walk away. I'm a possessive bastard but I won't keep someone who doesn't want to be kept.
But until then? She's mine to protect. Mine to pleasure. Mine to keep safe from the monsters who want to use her as a pawn in their sick games.
I pull the sheet over her naked body, shielding her from the cool air.
I wait until her breathing deepens, each exhale a warm puff against my chest. Time to move. Someone—probably Damiano—texted twenty minutes ago. I need to check it.
Carefully, I slide my arm from beneath her head, replacing it with a pillow. She stirs but doesn't wake. One leg free from our tangle, then the other. The mattress shifts as I ease my weight off it.
Almost clear.
Her hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength. "Don't," she murmurs, eyes still closed.
I freeze, torn between duty and the unexpected pull I feel toward her. I grab the phone, checking quickly if it's important.
Get some rest and we'll talk tomorrow.
I put it back down and turn to Melania.
She tugs me back, wrapping her arms around my waist like I'm her fucking lifeline. Her face presses against my stomach, breath hot against my skin.
"Please," she whispers, voice cracking.
Then I feel it—wetness against my skin. She's crying in her sleep, silent tears tracking down her cheeks.
"Shh," I murmur, sliding back in beside her. "I'm here."
I pull her closer, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other draws soothing patterns on her spine. My lips press against her hair, breathing in the scent of a shampoo mixed with a uniquely-Melania aroma.
"You're safe," I whisper against her temple. "I've got you."
A moth flutters against the window, drawn to the bedside lamp I left on. It circles erratically, casting dancing shadows across her bare shoulder. I reach over and switch off the light, plunging the room into darkness save for the moonlight filtering through the blinds.
The need to protect her hits me with unexpected force—not just from Raymond or her father, but from everything. The moth at the window. The shadows in the corner. The nightmares behind her eyelids. I want to build a fortress around her, keep her sheltered from anything that might cause her pain.
It's fucking ridiculous. I'm not that fucking type of man. What the hell has she done to me?
I drift through layers of sleep, pulled toward consciousness by the weight of a focused gaze. My eyelids flutter open to find a pair of dark eyes watching me—intense, unblinking. Alessio.
He lies beside me, head propped on one hand, studying my face like he's committing every detail to memory. The early morning light snags on his jaw, highlighting the sharp angles of his face.
" Buon giorno , princess," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
"Good morning," I whisper back.
My body awakens fully, muscles aching in places I'd forgotten could ache. Memories flood back—his hands gripping my hips, his mouth between my thighs, the way he'd commanded my pleasure and I'd surrendered completely. Heat rushes to my cheeks.
I reach up, trailing my fingers along his jaw. The stubble snares my fingertips, a delicious reminder of how that same roughness felt against my inner thighs last night. My body tingles at the memory.
Without thinking I lean forward and press my lips to his. He responds immediately, his hand sliding to cup the back of my neck, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, his tongue teasing mine in a way that makes my toes curl under the sheets.
When we break apart, his eyes have darkened to near-black. His thumb caresses my bottom lip, still swollen from last night's attention.
"As much as I'd like to continue this," he says, voice strained with restraint, "we need to get moving."
Reality crashes back over me like a bucket of ice water. We're not lovers on a romantic getaway. I'm a fugitive with a USB drive full of evidence against my father and that monster. Alessio is my kidnapper-turned-protector. And somewhere out there, Raymond and my father are hunting us.
I pull back, my hand falling away from his face. "Right. Of course."
I slide out of bed, letting the sheet fall away. The cool morning air tickles my skin as I stand fully exposed. I'm not used to this—being naked in front of someone without feeling self-conscious. But I don't mind him seeing me.
I turn toward the bathroom, feeling Alessio's eyes on me.
"Now that I see that ass again," he growls from behind me, "I might have second thoughts about working before fucking you."
I blink, a smile tugging at my lips. I glance over my shoulder, making sure he gets a good view.
"You said no," I say with mock disappointment. "What a shame."
I deliberately slow my pace, swaying my hips with each step toward the bathroom.
"Fuck me," Alessio mutters.
Before I reach the bathroom door, he's on me.
His body heat engulfs me as he pushes me up against the nearest wall.
His hard chest presses against my back and I feel his cock hardening between my ass cheeks.
One strong hand grips the back of my neck, pinning me gently but firmly against the wall, while his other hand slides between my thighs.
Two fingers push inside me without warning, finding me already wet. I gasp, my body arching back against him instinctively.
His lips brush my ear, his voice dropping to that dangerous tone that makes my knees weak. "I'm going to take you apart piece by piece," he whispers, "then put you back together so you never forget who you belong to."
"Oh god," I moan as Alessio's hands grip my ass, his fingers digging into my flesh.
"Lean forward," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "Hands on the wall."
I comply instantly, pressing my palms against the cool surface, arching my back the way he wants. Behind me I hear the soft thud of his knees hitting the floor. My pulse thunders in anticipation.
The sharp crack of his palm against my ass comes without warning. The sting blooms across my skin, the pain so exquisite it steals my breath. Before I can recover he strikes again on the other cheek, harder this time.
"Alessio!" I cry out, my control slipping away with each burning smack.
His hands spread me open, exposing everything to his gaze. All I feel is desperate need.
"So fucking perfect," he growls.
His teeth sink into the flesh of my ass cheek, not hard enough to break skin but with enough pressure to make me gasp. He soothes the bite with his tongue before moving to the other side, repeating the delicious punishment.
I'm trembling now, my thighs quivering as I struggle to stay upright. My fingernails scrape at the wall, searching for purchase.
Then his tongue—hot, wet, relentless—slides between my folds. I buck against him, unable to control my body's response. He grips my hips tighter, holding me in place as he devours me. His tongue circles my entrance before plunging inside, then moves upward in one long, devastating stroke.
"Please," I whimper, though I'm not sure what I'm begging for.
He responds by spreading me wider, his tongue venturing higher, circling my ass hole. The sensation is so new, so forbidden, that I nearly collapse. His thumb finds my clit at the same moment his tongue is still licking, and stars shoot in all directions behind my eyelids.