Chapter 14
THEA
We’re near the windows, and Gabriel is introducing me to someone whose name I’ve already forgotten, when I hear it.
It’s a woman’s voice nearby. She’s speaking in a loud whisper, a stage whisper, almost like she wants me to hear what she’s saying.
“I mean, she’s pretty, I suppose. But Gabriel has always had such refined taste. I’m surprised that he’d go for someone so… abundant.”
The word lands like a slap.
Abundant.
I’ve heard that one before—along with voluptuous and curvy, and just about every other euphemism people use when they want to say fat but want to retain the veneer of being polite.
My hand tightens around my champagne flute.
“Thea.” Gabriel’s voice is low. He heard it too, and he knows what’s on my mind.
“I’m fine. It’s fine.” The words come out automatically. “It doesn’t matter. People can say whatever they want.”
But I’m not fine.
I’m mad.
And I’m not about to let some Botoxed stranger in Chanel ruin my mood.
I turn slightly, trying to locate the source of the voice. I spot her. She’s blonde, practically skeletal, and clutching a martini with long skinny fingers. She’s talking to another woman with the same build, both of them taking furtive glances in our direction.
Gabriel follows my gaze. His expression goes cold when he realizes where I’m looking.
“Stay here,” he says.
“Gabriel, don’t—”
But he’s already moving. I watch, frozen, as he covers the dozen or so feet between us and the women. He leans in and says something too quiet for me to hear.
The color drains from the blonde’s face. She stammers something—probably an apology—but Gabriel’s already walking back to me, his hand sliding possessively around my waist.
“What did you say to her?” I whisper.
“That if she wanted to keep her husband’s construction contracts with Moretti Holdings, she’d better learn to keep her mouth shut.”
“You didn’t—”
“I did.” He looks down at me, his eyes dark. “And I meant it. You’re mine, Thea, which means anyone who disrespects you disrespects me. And I don’t tolerate that.”
He steps closer, placing his hands on my waist.
“Starting tonight, you’re not staff. You’re not the help. You’re not some woman I bought at an auction. You’re my woman. And everyone in this room is going to know it.”
My breath catches. My woman. Not my property. Not the help. And not mine in the I own you like a piece of furniture sense.
My woman.
Like I belong to him. But also that he belongs to me.
The distinction shouldn’t matter. But it does.
“Gabriel—”
He sweeps the room with his gaze, taking one last look over everything and everyone.
“I’ve made enough of an appearance,” he says. “It’s time to go.
“Are you sure? We’ve only been here an hour.”
“I don’t care.” His voice drops, low and edged. “I need you at home. Now. All to myself.”
No one is blatantly looking our way. I get the sense that just about everyone is too scared of Gabriel to do something that obvious. But I can feel dozens of pairs of eyes flitting in my direction, landing on me for a breath of a moment before looking away.
And why wouldn’t they look? The way Gabriel’s talking to me, the way he’s touching me… it draws attention. People are going to leave this place knowing what I am to him.
Part of me hates that I love that so much.
“We can’t just leave,” I say. “People will talk.” It’s a ridiculous thing to say—people are already talking.
“Let them.” His hand slides lower, resting on the outer side of my thigh. My pussy clenches, and I practically moan at his touch. “I brought you here to make a statement. Mission accomplished. Now I’m taking you home before I do something very inappropriate in a public place.”
“Like what?” I can’t help but ask the question.
He smirks. “Like reminding you exactly who you belong to. In detail. Repeatedly.”
My knees go weak.
I should say no, tell him this is too much, too fast, that I can’t keep doing this—letting him touch me, claim me, make me feel things that I have no business feeling for a man who bought me.
But I don’t. Because the awful truth is that… all of this? I want it. I want him. And I don’t know how to stop.
I take a breath.
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Take me home.”
Possession, hunger, passion flashes in his eyes. Then he takes my hand and leads me through the crowd, moving with purpose, ignoring the well-dressed men and women trying to catch his attention.
I spot Maria near the exit, her eyes wide. I give her a small wave and an awkward smile. She waves back, slacked-jawed in surprise.
The town car is waiting for us when we exit the Belvedere. Gabriel opens the door, then slides in beside me. The privacy screen is already up.
His mouth is on mine in seconds.
The kiss is hard, needy. He tastes like whiskey. I clutch his jacket, pulling him closer, the last week of tension and longing pouring out as our mouths crash together.
“Dio,” he groans against my lips. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me tonight? Watching every man in that room look at you and knowing they can’t have you?”
“Gabriel—”
“You’re mine, Thea. Mine.” His hand slides up my thigh, bunching the burgundy fabric. “Say it.”
My stomach tenses. I’ve had so much inner back-and-forth about this single, small word.
Mine.
I should refuse, remind him that I’m not his, that I’m still planning to escape, that this is all temporary. But as his hand moves higher, my body arches into his touch with no input from my mind.
The words tumble out before I can stop them.
“I’m yours.”
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Gabriel.”
“Brava ragazza.” I gasp when his fingers find the edge of my panties. “And when we get home, I’m going to spend the rest of the night proving it.”
The drive is short, and soon the car is pulling through the gates of the mansion.
I’m trembling. Aching. Terrified. All because I know, deep in my bones, in a way I can’t deny anymore, that this isn’t just about survival. It isn’t just about playing along until I can escape.
It’s real.
Whatever’s happening between us, I can’t write it off as delusion or Stockholm syndrome.
It’s real.
And I’m falling into it—fast.
The town car pulls up the circular drive. Gabriel looks at me, his eyes burning.
“Last chance, Thea,” he says. “If you want me to walk away, to let you go back to your room, tell me now. But if you come upstairs with me…”
“I know.” The words come out in a soft whisper.
“Do you?”
I meet his gaze.
“I know this is insane. I know I should say no. I know… that this is wrong.”
“But.” He says the word through a hungry, knowing grin.
“But I can’t help it.”
He reaches over and cups my face with one hand.
“That makes two of us. Stop fighting it. Stop thinking. Just feel.”
I take a slow breath.
“I’m scared.
“I know.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“I know that, too.”
“But I want you anyway.”
His smile is dark. And a little triumphant.
“Then come upstairs. And let me show you what happens when you stop running.”
We get out of the car, and I follow him into the house, into his bedroom, into something I know I’ll never be able to run from.
Even if I wanted to.