5. Chapter Three #2
"The Ravelli family has traditions older than your grandfather's first sin," I explain, pulling on black gloves, watching her eyes track the movement. "When something, or someone , becomes Ravelli property, they are marked accordingly."
"I am not property," Francesca says, the words a familiar refrain already.
I laugh softly, the sound devoid of humor. "Your father's signature on our agreement says otherwise."
I withdraw a document from my inner jacket pocket, unfolding it before her eyes.
"Would you like to see where he signed away all rights to you? Where he specified that you now belong to me, body and soul, to do with as I please?"
Her face remains impassive, but her hands grip the armrests tighter, knuckles whitening. "My father's authority over me ended the moment your men drugged me in Vienna."
" Exactly . And mine began," I agree, setting the document aside. "Now comes the physical representation of that transfer." I lift the tattoo gun, testing its weight in my hand. "So… where would you prefer the Ravelli crest? Shoulder? Hip? Or perhaps somewhere more... intimate?"
Fear finally breaks through her careful mask, her chest rising and falling more rapidly. "You're going to tattoo me?"
"I'm going to mark you," I correct her. "How much it hurts depends entirely on how still you remain."
Vladimir and Marco move to her sides, prepared to hold her down if necessary. Her eyes dart between them, calculating odds, measuring her chances. Finding none.
"You have a choice, Francesca," I say softly, moving to kneel between her legs, pushing the red dress higher up her thighs. "You can accept this willingly, or you can fight and be held down. Either way, when we're finished, you'll bear my mark."
Something changes in her expression. A decision made. She lifts her chin, eyes blazing with defiance even as her body surrenders to inevitability.
"Fine," she says, voice steady. "But remember something, Dante Ravelli. Whatever mark you put on my skin, it doesn't touch who I am inside. That part of me you will never own."
I push the dress higher, exposing the creamy skin of her inner thigh, my knuckles deliberately brushing the damp heat between her legs. Her cunt radiates warmth against my skin, and I'm so fucking close I could slip my fingers into her with one movement.
No doubt. This is the perfect location for my mark.
Intimate, possessive, visible only to me when I spread her thighs and feast on what belongs to me.
"We'll see," I murmur, bringing the needle to her skin, my breath hot against her flesh. "We'll see which part of you surrenders first."
The needle pierces flesh, her sharp intake of breath followed by a sound almost like a moan.
I begin etching the Ravelli crest with a scratch against her skin, each line a claim on her body and soul.
As I work, the surprising scent of her arousal begins to mingle with the metallic tang of blood. One look up at her and my cock hardens painfully against my zipper.
She doesn't cry out, doesn't beg, but her thighs quiver beneath my touch, muscles clenching with each stroke of the needle. Her nipples harden visibly beneath the silk, her chest heaving with shallow breaths.
Minutes pass, the ritual continuing in silence broken only by the buzz of the tattoo gun and the ragged catch in her throat when my wrist angles and moves dangerously close to her core.
She's wet, despite everything—her body betraying her mind with primal response to my marking.
When I finish, wiping away the last traces of blood to reveal the completed mark, raw satisfaction burns through me like liquor. The Ravelli crest stands stark against the paleness of her inner thigh, mere inches from where I'll claim her fully.
Soon.
"Beautiful," I growl, tracing the outline with my gloved finger, deliberately drifting higher until her thighs clench to stop my advance. I feel the heat of her, see the unwilling hunger in her dilated pupils. "Now there can be no question whose cunt this is."
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing but a faint breath escapes.
I rise to my feet, turning to Vladimir. "Prepare the camera. Her father will want proof his merchandise has been properly claimed."
Her eyes flash dangerously. "You wouldn't dare."
"Nothing inappropriate. No one but me will get to see your pussy anymore," I assure her with mock gallantry. "Just enough to show your father the mark. To confirm delivery of goods. A debt repaid."
"I am not—"
"—merchandise," I finish for her. "So you keep saying. And yet, here we are."
Vladimir readies the camera while Marco ensures she remains seated, the red dress arranged to reveal just enough of the fresh tattoo without exposing more than necessary.
Ravellis remain diplomatic even in humiliation.
The camera flashes. Once. Twice. Evidence captured.
"Send it," I order Vladimir. "With the message: 'The Castellano princess serves a new master now.'"
When we're alone again, she finally allows herself to move, pushing the dress down with shaking hands, a soft hiss escaping when the fabric meets tender flesh.
"Does it satisfy you?" she asks suddenly, voice husky despite her fury. "Treating women like cattle to be branded? Is this how the great Dante Ravelli proves his manhood?"
I step closer, inhaling her scent—fear and arousal and defiance creating an intoxicating perfume.
"This isn't about proving anything, princess.
It's about claiming what's mine." I reach out, fisting a handful of her dark hair, tugging her head back to expose the vulnerable column of her throat.
"And judging by the smell of you… your body already knows who owns it. Soon, your mind will follow."
"And if I never accept it?" she challenges, eyes like molten amber. "If I fight you every day, every hour, every minute that you keep me prisoner?"
My smile makes her shiver visibly.
"Then we'll have a very entertaining time together, won't we?" I release her hair, stepping back. "Rest. Have dinner. Your new life begins tomorrow, and you'll need your strength."
As I turn to leave, her voice stops me at the threshold.
"Dante."
I think it's the sound of my name on her lips that stops me so suddenly. Or the fact she's addressed me so casually, like we're old friends running into each other on the street.
I turn back to face her. "Yes?"
"Why me?" she asks, genuine confusion drawing her brows inward. "You could have demanded territory, money, power. Why a woman you don't even know?"
I look back at her, this fierce, beautiful creature who doesn't yet understand her value. Who doesn't realize that in choosing her, I've chosen the most valuable piece on the board.
Seems I still have work to do before she's ready.
"Because, Francesca Castellano, in our world, a king needs a queen. And I intend to take everything my brother has. Including a throne that should be mine already."
I close the door behind me, the electronic lock engaging.
Outside, I flex my hand, remembering the feel of her skin beneath my fingers, the trembling she couldn't control, the defiance she maintained despite everything.
Breaking her will be exquisite indeed.
And when she finally surrenders—when she acknowledges me as her king, her master, her everything—the victory will taste all the sweeter for the battle that preceded it.