Chapter Twenty-Two Ella
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ella
I’m sitting up in bed, reading when the door opens hard enough to hit the wall. I startle, my hand flying to my chest.
Gualtiero stands in the doorway. His hands clench into fists as he steps into the room.
I watch him warily. His sharp gaze locks onto me, his jaw tight, like he’s holding something back.
He’s furious.
With me?
No, I didn’t do anything wrong. Something else must have happened.
“Ella, get dressed,” he says, his tone flat, controlled.
I glance at the clock on the bedside table. Just after nine. I don’t want to leave this room again.
“Why? Where are we going?”
“To my club in Palermo.”
A club. Palermo. Absolutely not.
“Urgh… that’s such a long drive.”
The last thing I want is to spend an hour each way in a car with him in this mood. I lower my gaze back to my book.
“I’ll stay here. You go.”
The book is taken from my hands before I can turn the page. It hits the wall with a dull thud.
I stare at him, a little shocked.
He leans over me, bracing one hand beside my head. His face is inches from mine, his presence swallowing the space.
“It wasn’t an invitation,” he says quietly. “It was an order.”
Oh really?
I lift a brow, meeting his gaze head-on. Why I want to rile him up more, I’m not sure, but I’m done being moved around like a piece on a chessboard.
Before I can even open my mouth, he continues, “I told you before, wherever I go, you go. End of discussion.”
I don’t move or respond.
“You will obey me—”
“Or what, Gualtiero?” I cut in, my anger building.
His eyes darken, and something in his expression shuts down.
Whatever restraint he has left is slipping.
He straightens abruptly, muscles flexing, then turns and strides into my closet. Hangers scrape sharply against the rail before he comes back out, a sparkly blue dress in his hand. He throws it onto the bed.
“Be downstairs in ten minutes,” he says, turning to the door.
“I told you I’m not going,” I snap.
He closes the distance in a single step, and suddenly I’m pinned beneath him, my wrists trapped above my head in one hand. I gasp, the air knocked from my lungs.
“Tread carefully, Ella,” he says, his tone low. “If I were you, I’d think twice about pushing me tonight.”
His chest rises and falls heavily against mine. I can feel the tension in him. Coiled. Waiting to explode. Fear prickles under my skin.
“I’ve had an afternoon from hell,” he says, his voice rougher now. “And the day isn’t over yet.”
His gaze drags down my body, slow and deliberate.
“And on top of that…” His jaw flexes. “I haven’t touched you in days.”
The words come out strained, like he’s trying to rein himself in. And failing.
His grip on my wrists tightens, but not enough to hurt.
“I’m tired of denying myself what’s mine and making do with my hand.”
One of his hands slides down my side, over my hip, stopping at my thigh. My body reacts instantly, goosebumps rising in its wake. My pulse stutters.
None of it is from arousal.
Petrified of what he’ll do next, I watch his expression closely.
“I’m running out of patience,” he mutters, his voice low against my skin as his mouth brushes my neck.
My breath catches.
“I need—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply against my throat, like he’s trying to drag himself back.
His hips shift, and I feel his hard length pressing against me.
My chest tightens, my body going rigid beneath him.
He wouldn’t—
Would he?
My heart pounds, and a thin sheen of sweat breaks across my skin.
“Gualtiero,” I whisper, the word trembling as I try to pull against his hold. “You promised…”
His hand stills.
For a second, he doesn’t move.
Then his fingers brush higher along my thigh, slower this time. Not demanding. Testing.
“Gualtiero,” I say again, my voice breaking now, fear slipping through. “You’ve taken everything from me. Don’t you dare take the only thing I have left.”
My lips tremble, but I force myself to go on.
“It’s for me to give,” I whisper, needing to get through to him. “And I’m saying no.”
The words hang between us.
His entire body goes completely still. Like something inside him finally hits a wall.
He exhales, long and controlled, his forehead dropping briefly against my shoulder.
When he speaks again, his voice is different. Still rough, but more grounded.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
He doesn’t move for a beat, but then releases my wrists.
The weight lifts off me as he pushes himself back, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to shake something off.
I scramble away instinctively, wrapping my arms around my body.
My heart is still racing.
He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t come closer again.
“Get dressed,” he says, his voice clipped, but once more controlled. “Be downstairs in ten minutes.”
Then he walks out.