Chapter 7
7
ARIA
I must be out of my goddamn mind.
No. That doesn’t quite cut it.
Right now, I must be possessed by the spirit of some horny virgin. Her backstory is simple—once upon a time, she lived in this house and pined after Nicolas, swearing her virginity to him. But she died before they could even touch, and now, her spirit has possessed me.
That is the most logical explanation for why my body is reacting like this to Nicolas’ unwanted kiss.
It ignites like a flame thrown onto dry wood. His lips are firm and demanding, but the heat of it shocks me. My body stiffens at first, and I try to fight back, but once I let myself feel how good the kiss is, I feel my resistance slipping.
That must have been when the ghost possessed me.
I want to hate myself for it, but it feels too good. Unfairly good.
His tongue brushes against my bottom lip, and when I gasp—he takes the opening. He immediately slides his tongue into my mouth, and the sensation sends a shiver down my spine. He is not hesitant. He’s not asking permission. He’s just taking. Every single thing he can take at this moment, he does.
My hands press against his chest again, but I’m not pushing him away. Instead, I grip his shirt tightly, clinging to the soft fabric like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
He pulls back slightly, his gaze meeting mine, and a smirk curls his lips. “So much for ‘I’d rather die’.”
The statement jolts me back into reality. My hand rises instinctively to slap him, but he seizes my wrists before I can make contact. With an expression that borders on cruel amusement, he pulls me into his arms and kisses me again.
If I thought the last kiss was rough, I wasn’t prepared for this. He kisses me with a hunger that feels insatiable, like he’s trying to consume every part of me.
The first kiss was impulsive. This one is deliberate.
My lips part easily, and his tongue slides between them, seeking mine. Every man I’ve ever kissed before feels like a novice compared to how Nicolas claims my mouth. It’s as if he wants to possess me entirely, and the fire and intensity make it impossible to focus on anything else.
His fingers twist in my hair, yanking my head back sharply as if drowning in the sensation.
This isn’t just passion—it’s anger, need, and a deep, searing pain. I remember the weary, haunted look in his eyes from last night. Something heavy weighs on him, too. I sense we’re both carrying burdens we can’t easily shed, and right now, I want to channel all my unspoken emotions into this kiss.
He squeezes my ass harder, his grip bruising until it’s almost impossible for me to breathe. But the frustrated virgin ghost inside me doesn’t care as he caresses my body, each touch igniting shivers that crash against the heat of my skin.
This isn’t supposed to feel good.
My head spins, every coherent thought swallowed by the sensation of him—his lips, his tongue, the way his body presses tightly against mine. A low, traitorous sound escapes my throat, and I hate myself for it even more.
No. This isn’t who I am.
I dig through every image of Nicolas—the moments on the balcony, the strained conversation at the restaurant, and even how he looks at me now. I channel my frustration into those memories, letting them fuel my actions. I press my teeth into his lower lip, biting hard enough to elicit a wince.
He pulls back abruptly, his hand falling from my hair, and I watch as a flash of surprise flickers across his dark gaze. But there’s a trace of amusement there too. He touches his lip with his thumb, his fingers smearing blood across his skin, and his smirk widens.
He smiles, but it’s not a kind smile. It’s the kind that twists my stomach into knots. His gaze holds mine as he easily swipes his tongue over the bloodstained cut, as if tasting his own blood means nothing to him.
“What the fuck was that for?” I snap, my voice sharp and unwavering.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he moves to the door, glancing left and right, waiting for a few agonizing seconds before stepping back into the room. Without a word, he removes his shirt and folds it neatly, his movements deliberate and measured.
Finally, he speaks, his voice calm but commanding. “I don’t care what happens behind closed doors, bambina .”
His Italian accent curls around the word like a thorn, and I don’t know if I despise it or if a strange part of me is drawn to it.
He continues, his tone cool and measured. “But in front of the staff, and in front of any other fucking person, you will not disrespect me. Ever. Do you understand?”
Anger pulses through me, and I’m glad for it. It anchors me against the chaos of what’s unfolding. There’s no way I’d be locking lips with an asshole like him again. “Disrespect you?” I echo, my voice filled with venom. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, Nicolas Paolo, but isn’t respect something you earn?”
He chuckles, a low, condescending sound. “You’re implying that I have to earn your respect? You?”
I roll my eyes, frustration bubbling to the surface. “There’s not a single thing you can do that’ll make me respect you. You’ve destroyed my life. I’d have to pull off some award-winning acting to show you any respect.”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. His gaze remains steady, almost unnerving. “Then pull it off. I’ll get you an acting teacher if that’s what you wish. Whatever it takes to keep up this appearance.”
“Unbelievable.”
The word escapes my lips like a venomous sigh. He heads to the wardrobe and begins to button up another shirt. As he fastens the final button, he pauses, his fingers lingering.
“Your life is still your own, Aria,” he says calmly. “What you make of it now depends on how you act. Don’t test me.”
His calmness fuels my anger further. He doesn’t look flustered by the kiss. If anything, he’s mocking me, reveling in his dominance, making it clear that my life outside of this room belongs to him. My world is shifting too fast—my freedom, my choices, my dignity—all ripped away in a single day. And he has the audacity to stand there and tell me to behave?
He begins to turn, his hand reaching for the doorknob.
I can’t stop myself. I pull off the one thing that has truly gotten under his skin.
“Coward.”
The word slips out before I even realize it.
He pauses, his back to me, his hand resting on the door. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. My heart pounds in my chest, loud enough that I’m sure he can hear it.
Just when I start to believe he didn’t register what I said, he turns slowly, his hand sliding away from the doorknob. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and a shiver runs down my spine, the same way it did last night.
It’s an intoxicating mix—fear and lust—one that coils tightly around my thoughts, making it hard to breathe.
“What did you just say?”
The words hang in the air, heavy and demanding. My breath catches, and I feel the hairs on my neck stand on end. My heart races so fast it’s almost painful, and every nerve in my body feels frayed, chilled by the overwhelming fear.
Nicolas scares the fuck out of me.
But I don’t care. I lift my chin, meeting his gaze head-on.
“I called you a coward,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. “Because it seems to me like you always want to find the easiest way out of a problem.”
He moves faster than I expect. In a flash, he closes the distance between us, his long strides taking him right in front of me. Before I can react, his body presses against mine, forcing me against the cool wall. His hands brace on either side of my head, caging me in.
“Don’t ever call me that again,” he growls, his breath hot and sharp against my skin.
My legs nearly give out, but I force myself to stand firm, grounding my weight into the wall. “What are you going to do about it?” I snap, my voice sharper than before. That familiar, stupid heat pools between my legs again, and I press my thighs together in a futile attempt to control it.
His eyes narrow, the darkness in them deepening, and a cruel smile twists his lips. “You seem to be enjoying this way too much, bambino. ” Without stepping back, he takes a deep breath, his chest rising slowly, then falls with an almost hypnotic calm. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a chilling stillness that seems to dominate his expression.
“You think you’re brave, don’t you?” he asks, his voice cold and razor-sharp. “Your family is nothing without your brother pulling the strings. Without him, you’d just be another spoiled little girl clinging to your dead father’s name, judging everyone else except herself. You don’t even see it—every man you’ve ever known is just like me. Maybe even worse.”
“Don’t you dare talk about my father!” I scream, my voice cracking under the weight of my fury. My hands fly to his chest, my anger fed by the sting of his words. Pain and memories rush to the surface, colliding with my breaths that are coming faster now. My father was the only truly good man I’ve ever known. He was the only person in this world who loved me unconditionally.
“Don’t you ever—” My voice fractures, trembling as I hit him again and again, the words lodged in my throat.
He catches my wrists mid-strike; his grip is unyielding as he pins them to the wall on either side of my head. His face is dangerously close to mine, his voice a low, venomous growl. “You’re mine now,” he says, the words slithering into my ear like a cruel promise.
Before I can react, he presses his knee firmly between my legs, the pressure sending a jolt through my body. My breath hitches, my eyes stinging as I twist and struggle against him, but it’s no use. His voice lowers further, the mocking edge cutting deep. “I’ll make it my mission to remind you daily that you are. That your body belongs to me—and it already knows it.”
“It… it doesn’t. I don’t,” I stammer, but my voice lacks conviction.
He presses his knee harder against me, and I bite down on my lip, desperate to stifle the sound threatening to escape. My body betrays me, ignoring the protests of my mind and responding to every deliberate move he makes.
I can’t even blame Virgin Ghost this time. My head is as clear, my thoughts are screaming at me to resist, but none of it stops the heat pooling in my core. If I hadn’t called him a coward, this entire confrontation would have ended with him walking out of the room.
“You see,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, almost tender—yet taunting.
Those words twist something inside me, and I hate how my body reacts. The tension between my thighs grows unbearable, and I feel the heat spreading, unstoppable. He lowers his head, his lips grazing my neck in the lightest touch, but it’s enough to send a bolt of electricity racing through me. I gasp softly, my breath hitching, but I refuse to give him more.
“Stop,” I whisper, but the word is fragile, barely audible—barely real.
He kisses my neck again, lingering this time like he’s memorizing the spot where my defenses falter. The place between my ear and my chin becomes his target, and with cruel precision, he presses against me with his knee. The pressure ignites a storm of sensations I can’t control.
A low, unwilling moan escapes me, slipping through my lips before I can stop it. Shame crashes over me in waves, but it’s already too late.
Marco’s words echo in my mind, along with the promise I made to myself: I’m here for a reason. I’m here to get information and play along until this marriage ends. That’s all this is. I repeat it like a mantra, forcing myself to stay grounded.
I stop fighting. I force my body to relax, even though every nerve still tingles from the confrontation. Focus on the bigger picture.
Nicolas pulls back slightly, his dark eyes scanning my face. His chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath like he’s fighting to regain control. Like I’ve brought him to the edge of something he wasn’t prepared for.
Well, join the line, asshole.
“Get some rest,” he says finally, his voice quieter, more measured now. “I’m taking a shower.”
He releases my wrists and steps away, the warmth of his presence replaced by an almost suffocating emptiness. I don’t move, my chest still heaving from the effort of keeping it together as he strides into the bathroom.
The sound of running water fills the silence that follows, a sharp contrast to the storm still raging inside me.
I stand there for a moment, my heart still pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. My hands tremble as I lift them to my lips. They’re swollen and tingling, a lingering reminder of him.
I hate him.
I hate him for the cruel things he said about my father, for twisting the one pure memory I have left. I hate him for what he’s done to my life, for how he’s stripped me of control. And most of all, I hate him for the way he makes my own body betray me—for the heat, the pull, the maddening ache I can’t seem to suppress no matter how hard I try.
Finally, I force myself to move. My legs feel like lead as I make my way to the bed. Sliding under the silk sheets, I try to find comfort, but the fabric is cold against my skin. I huddle to one side, as far away from the middle as possible.
But even here, there’s no escape.
The sheets smell like him—woodsy, masculine, with that intoxicating darkness that clings to him like a second skin. It feels like he’s everywhere, invading every corner of my mind and body.
There’s really no escaping him, is there?
This is my life now. The sooner I accept it, the better off I’ll be. A lump forms in my throat, but I force it down.
I am not going to cry. Not now. Not ever in front of Nicolas.
The bathroom door opens. Don’t look at him.
I hear him moving around the room, his footsteps deliberate but unhurried. Then, the bed dips under his weight as he climbs in. He stays on his side, and the space between us is a chasm neither seems willing to cross. I think he might say something for a fleeting moment—but he doesn’t.
I shut my eyes, desperately willing myself to sleep.
But the silence feels too loud, and sleep refuses to come. I keep still, not moving until his breathing evens, soft and steady, signaling that he’s drifted off.
Only then do I allow myself to turn.
His face is turned toward the ceiling, his jaw tight, his brows drawn together even in sleep. The tension in his features is unmistakable, as though he’s locked in a battle with some unseen enemy.
He doesn’t look angry. He looks… sad. I don’t know why that thought keeps crossing my mind, but there it is again.
Still, he seems to be sleeping soundly, his breaths steady and even.
“How can he sleep so peacefully after…” I whisper, the words trailing off. Does it even matter? No. He’s still an asshole.
I shake the thought away and turn on my side, yanking the blanket tighter around me as if it could shield me from my thoughts.
I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.
I repeat the words in my head, a mantra I cling to, over and over, until exhaustion finally pulls me under.