11. Chapter Nine #2
She turns within the circle of my arms, letting my arms remain locked around her, almost like she's letting me hold her closer.
"And what way is that?"
"With shopping of course," I reply with a rare smile. "Every queen needs her crown, princess."
Her startled laughter is unexpected enough to stop my breath. "Shopping? The great Dante Ravelli takes his captive bride shopping ?!"
"Yes. For the masquerade," I clarify, fighting the urge to capture that laugh with my mouth. "You'll need a gown. New jewelry. A mask."
"Well, excuse me. I just assumed you'd have selected everything already," she says, her eyes searching mine from a distance so close I can see every tiny fleck in her beautiful irises.
"Some things require your personal attention." My hand rises to cup her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip. "I want to see what catches your eye. What makes you shine."
The admission feels dangerous, too revealing. I may as well be telling her that deep down, I actually might want to get to know her.
I drop my hand abruptly, stepping back to create distance between us.
"I'll give you one hour to rest, then we'll leave," I inform her, my tone deliberately cooler as I force myself to take a step back. "Marco will escort you to the shops I've arranged. I'll meet you there. I have business to attend to first."
She studies me with a furrowed brow, something like disappointed flooding her features. "Of course. Business first, pleasure later."
The words carry a promise that follows me as I retreat to the secure room set up for communications. Vincent waits with updates on Luca's movements, on territorial disputes requiring my attention, on a thousand details that should occupy my mind completely.
Instead, I find myself checking my watch repeatedly, counting down the minutes until I can rejoin the woman waiting in our suite.
The woman who was supposed to be merely a symbol of my power but is rapidly becoming something far more dangerous.
Something that feels terrifyingly like a weakness.
***
We walk the exclusive boutiques of Paris like royalty, doors opening at our approach, staff fawning over our every move. Francesca moves through these spaces with the natural grace of someone born to wealth and power.
At Dior , she selects a gown that makes my mouth fucking drop .
It's black, of course. My favorite.
But it's cut so close to her body before flaring dramatically at her knees, the back open to the base of her spine. At her favorite jeweler, she tries on diamond earrings that catch the light like stars. At Louboutin , she chooses heels that transform her walk into a weapon.
I approve each selection with a stiff nod, watching her through hooded eyes as she transforms herself into the queen I never knew she could be when I signed that deal.
"Beautiful," I murmur as she emerges from the final fitting, once again in her traveling clothes but somehow changed nevertheless. More confident. More present .
"Thank you," she replies. I realize it's the first time she's accepted a compliment from me without qualification or resistance, and fuck me, I can't help but smile.
As we return to the hotel, Paris lighting up around us as dusk falls, she grows quiet.
"Dante," she says suddenly, as our car approaches the hotel. "Why did you really bring me here? The truth."
I consider deflecting, offering the strategic explanation that I normally would. That her presence sends a message, that the Castellano-Ravelli alliance strengthens my position. That this is all a game to me. A game I will win when I finally get one over my older brother.
But something in her eyes demands more.
"Because you deserve to see Paris," I admit finally. "Because I wanted to see you see it."
Her expression softens with surprise, her guard lowering momentarily. "Dante Ravelli… you continue to confuse me. I really don't understand you."
"Good," I reply, reaching across to take her hand. "Confusion keeps you alert. Keeps you alive."
The car stops. As we exit, I slide my fingers through hers, guiding her through the lobby. The touch is possessive, territorial—a clear signal to anyone watching that this woman belongs to me.
Yet as the elevator doors close behind us, leaving us alone for the first time since our shopping expedition, the atmosphere shifts from public performance to private reality.
"I've thought of one more rule for tomorrow," I say, my voice low as we ascend towards our suite. She looks at me with a question in her brows. "You will not leave my side at the masquerade. Not for a moment. Not for any reason."
Her head tilts slightly. "I thought this was already the case. Because you don't trust me."
"Wrong. Because I don't trust them ," I correct her. "My brother will be there. The Volkovs, too. Your father… possibly. A room full of people who would use you to hurt me."
"Is that what I am now?" she asks, stepping closer until our bodies nearly touch. "A vulnerability rather than an asset?"
The elevator stops, the doors opening to our private floor. I capture her wrist before she can exit, pulling her against me with one swift movement.
"You are mine ," I growl against her ear, feeling her shiver against me.
Her pulse races beneath my fingers, her breathing shallow against my chest. "And if I still plan to escape? To use Paris as my opportunity?"
"Do you have a plan?"
She shrugs, eyes locked on mine. "I haven't decided yet."
"Then if you do…" I smile against her hair, inhaling her jasmine scent. "I'll hunt you across continents, princess. I'll burn cities to find you. And when I do—"
I catch it… that flash in her dark eyes.
"And when you do?" Francesca's voice comes out breathless, her body pressed against mine in the elevator.
Her pupils dilate further, soft pink lips parting just enough to tempt me closer. My cock hardens instantly at that look, at how her body betrays her even as she plays at resistance.
"I-I'll—"
"You'll punish me," she finishes for me, speaking over me in a way that only she would get away with. "So you keep promising, Dante."
The challenge in her gaze awakens something primal in me. Without thinking, I back her against the elevator wall, one hand tangling in her hair to tilt her face upward.
"You don't believe I will?"
She shrugs despite my grip in her hair tightening. "You keep saying it, yet… here we are."
"Well, perhaps it's time for a demonstration," I murmur, my free hand sliding to her throat. "A reminder of who holds the power between us."
Her eyes widen before me. "Here? In an elevator?"
"Here. Now." I slam the STOP button so the doors don't close and lower my mouth to her ear. "On your knees, princess."
She hesitates, aware of the security cameras, of the staff sweeping through our suite who might interrupt at any moment. Then, slowly, deliberately, she sinks to her knees before me, those sinful fucking eyes never leaving mine.
The sight of her kneeling sends blood rushing to my cock, hardening it painfully against my zipper. I trace her lower lip with my thumb, watching it part beneath my touch.
"Open," I command roughly.
She obeys, her lips parting as I press my thumb into the wet heat of her mouth. Her tongue swirls around the knuckle, slow and wet, like an implicit promise that nearly ruins my control.
And not for a single moment does she stop staring into my eyes.
"This is what awaits you," I tell her, removing my thumb to trace her dampened lip. "A world of absolute pleasure when you obey. But severe consequences when you don't. The choice, as always, is yours."
She bites her lip, but not before I catch the small whimper trying to escape.
I step back, allowing her to rise. Her hands fist in my jacket, whether to push me away or pull me closer, I'm not sure she even knows.
"Now," I say, offering my arm as the perfect gentleman should. "We have a masquerade to prepare for, and I intend to ensure you outshine every woman there."
She takes my arm, her composure reasserting itself with impressive speed.
I guide her from the elevator, my hand covering hers where it rests in the crook of my elbow.
As the suite door closes behind us, I watch understanding dawn in her eyes. The realization that our time in Paris is more than a business trip, more than a public appearance.
It's a test. For both of us.
And neither of us can afford to fail.