Chapter 19
Alina
Warmth envelops me as consciousness slowly returns. Not just any warmth—his.
Raffaele’s arm is a heavy weight across my waist, his chest pressed firmly against my back, his breath fanning the nape of my neck in steady puffs. Four nights of sleeping like this, and my body still hasn’t adjusted to the way he wraps himself around me.
But what makes my breath catch this morning isn’t his possessive grip—it’s the unmistakable hardness pressing against my backside.
My body responds before my mind catches up, a rush of heat pooling low in my belly. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to ease the sudden ache building between them.
Unbidden, my mind wanders to places it shouldn’t. What would it feel like if there were no barriers between us? If I were to turn around and press myself against him, slide my hand down his stomach and wrap my fingers around…
“Good morning, Piccola,” Raffaele’s voice, rough with sleep, rumbles against my ear. His arm tightens, pulling me impossibly closer.
“M-morning,” I stammer, my cheeks burning as if he can somehow read my thoughts.
His hips shift, a subtle movement pressing his erection firmer against me. It’s deliberate, I know it is. He’s making sure I feel exactly what I do to him. “Sleep well?”
“Yes,” I manage, my voice steadier than I expected.
“Mhmm.” His thumb traces lazy circles on my stomach where my—his—t-shirt has ridden up during the night.
Without thinking, I suck my stomach in. I don’t even realize I’ve done it until he pinches the flesh. “Ouch!” I yelp.
“Stop doing that,” he growls.
Since my first night in his arms, he’s made a point of touching my stomach with his hands, his lips, even his tongue and teeth. It’s… confusing. On the one hand, it makes electricity zap through me. But on the other, it makes me feel more vulnerable than when he had his mouth on my… down there.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “It’s a habit. I’m not doing it on purpose, you know.”
Soothing the pinch with his palm, he rasps. “Turn around.”
It’s not a request. With Raffaele, it never is.
Four days of this routine, and I know the drill. Still, my heart hammers against my ribs as I shift in his arms until we’re face to face, my eyes level with the dark stubble covering his jaw.
Raffaele looks down at me, his green eyes heavy-lidded but alert. Without waiting for me to adjust, he dips his head and captures my lips with his. This is another part of our morning ritual—a kiss to start the day.
Uncaring about morning breath, his tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding entry that I readily grant. The taste of him floods my senses as his hand slides up my back, fingers tangling in my hair to angle my head exactly how he wants it.
I’m helpless against the wave of sensation that crashes through me. My hands move of their own accord; one resting on his chest, the other sliding up to touch the rough stubble on his jaw. The contrast of textures—soft lips, scratchy beard, silky hair—overwhelms me.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes have darkened to forest green. “That’s better,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my lower lip, now swollen from his attention. “Now I can start my day.”
He rolls away from me, the sudden absence of his heat leaving me shivering despite the warmth of the room. I watch as he slides out of bed, the muscles in his back flexing as he stretches his arms overhead.
The tattoos that cover his skin shift and ripple with the movement, like shadows dancing across his flesh.
“I’m going to shower,” he says over his shoulder.
He disappears into the bathroom, and I listen to the water start before I allow myself to exhale fully. This strange domesticity we’ve fallen into feels surreal—like playing house with a wolf.
I’m under no illusions about what this is or isn’t. A marriage of convenience, not of love. A transaction to secure my freedom and for him to do what his family expects. Or rather, demands.
I slide out of bed and pad to the guest room where I shower and get ready. The clothes Susan brought me hang in the closet now, ready for me to pick from.
But I still can’t make myself wear the beautiful things. They don’t feel like mine. I didn’t pick them out; I didn’t get a say.
Leaving them behind, I reach for the same jeans and shirt I’ve worn since I arrived.
Luckily, Susan’s happy to wash them for me.
I don’t know how she does it. But when I change in here, I leave them behind before going to Raffaele’s room.
And when I come back in the morning, they’re clean, dry, and folded.
Maybe she’s a witch.
I dress quickly, ending it all by shoving my feet into my worn trainers. Then I throw my red hair up in a high ponytail and add a dash of mascara to my eyelashes. There, now I’m ready.
I’m not elegant by any means, but this is me.
Raffaele exits his bedroom at the same time as I do, and together, we walk downstairs for breakfast. I pretend I don’t notice the unimpressed glares he shoots me—or rather, my clothes.
When we get closer to the kitchen, I hear Susan coo, “Who’s such a good boy?” which is followed by a very pathetic meow. “No. You have to wait, baby. The shrimps are too hot.”
“What the fuck,” Raffaele mumbles.
I can’t help grinning as we enter the kitchen and find Susan blowing on a small bowl of shrimps. I knew she was spoiling Onyx.
“Good morning,” I smile.
Onyx immediately starts purring and weaves between my legs until Susan places the small bowl next to him and tells him to eat. Then he starts growling. It’s not a menacing sound by any means, but when he does it while using his paw to slide the bowl away, I’m pretty sure it means mine, don’t touch.
Twenty minutes later, we’re seated at the kitchen island, coffee steaming in mugs before us. Susan has left and taken Onyx with her. Luckily, she left us breakfast, since she stole my cat.
Raffaele looks impeccable in a charcoal suit that fits him as if it’s been molded to his body. His hair, still damp from the shower, is combed back from his forehead, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face. He’s beautiful in the way dangerous things often are—all hard edges and predatory grace.
“I have something for you,” he says, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket and sliding it across the counter toward me.
I eye it warily before picking it up. “What is this?”
“Our test results,” he replies casually, taking a sip of his coffee. “We’re both clean and healthy.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I open the envelope and scan the medical documents inside. True to his word, both his results and mine show a clean bill of health.
Two days ago, Raffaele dragged me to his private doctor. He insisted we both got checked out and wouldn’t take no for an answer. When I protested since I’m a virgin, his eyes darkened to that dangerous shade that makes my stomach clench.
He leaned in so close I could feel his breath hot against my ear. “When I fill you with my cum, I want nothing between us. No birth control. No fucking condom. I don’t want to wait to put a baby in you.” I couldn’t breathe for a full minute after that.
“I told you I’ve never been with anyone,” I mutter, folding the papers and sliding them back into the envelope.
“And I believed you,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “But trust is verified in my world. And sex isn’t the only way to get an STD. Isn’t it better to know for certain?”
I take a bite of toast to avoid having to respond. There’s something oddly warming about his insistence on these tests, despite the clinical nature. It’s possessive, yes, but also… careful. Considerate, in his own controlling way.
The memory sends a shiver down my spine. Apart from letting Raffaele touch me, I’ve never been with a man, and here I am, about to marry one who makes it very clear he intends to claim every part of me. More than he already has.
Meanwhile, his experience is extensive—I don’t need details to know that much. The thought of being compared to the women in his past makes my insides twist.
“Don’t forget we have to go to the lawyer’s office at noon,” Raffaele says, dragging me from my thoughts. “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, brushing at imaginary lint. The thought of seeing Sabrina again makes my palms sweat.
While he disappears to do… whatever it is he does, I stay in the kitchen and look through some recipe books Susan found for me.
My hands tremble as I flip through the recipe book, my heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Every time I blink, I see flashes of what my life has become.
I’m not falling down a rabbit hole—I’m being dragged through hell by my ankles.
I grip these pages until my knuckles turn white, because choosing between buttercream and fondant is the only thing keeping me from screaming until my throat bleeds.
With so few choices left to me in this life, I’m fixating on our wedding cake like it’s my last act of defiance. My fingers cramp around the pen as I sketch a towering, tiered monstrosity dripping with blood-red roses, then violently cross it out.
What kind of cake suits a woman marrying her captor? Something less traditional—something that acknowledges the strange reality we’re living. Maybe I should just bake a coffin.
When it’s almost time to leave, I still haven’t decided. Maybe I’ll just end up doing wedding cupcakes and stack them. Would that be festive enough for marrying the man who owns me?
When Raffaele strides back into the kitchen, I quickly slam the book closed and stand.
“It’s time.” The deep tenor of his voice makes the hairs on my neck stand at attention.
Taking his outstretched hand, I let him lead me to the front door. We stop in front of the coat closet, which he opens and pulls out a black coat for himself. That’s when I realize I haven’t seen my coat since I arrived.
“Here you go.”
My eyes widen as he hands me a beautiful cream-colored coat. It’s long enough to reach my ankles, and it has a hood attached to it.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. Then I roll my shoulders back. “But I want my own coat.”
I don’t need his words to know I’m starting to anger him, it’s written all over his face. “Fine,” he snaps.
Instead of handing it to me after digging it out of the coat closet, he throws it at me.