Chapter 13 The Silk Snare
POV: Sienna
The sprawling expanse of my guest suite had been transformed into a suffocating, high-end boutique of velvet, leather, and silk.
Six massive, matte-black boxes bearing the gilded crests of the Vesperine District’s most elite designers sat open on the edge of the king-sized mattress.
The air was thick with the scent of expensive textiles and the crisp, untouched rustle of black tissue paper.
I stood in the center of the room, my arms crossed defensively over my chest, staring at the garments as if they were venomous snakes waiting to strike.
Roman stood by the tinted smart-glass window, the bruising grey light of the relentless storm outside casting his sharp, aristocratic features into deep shadow.
He hadn't asked for my measurements. He hadn't inquired about my preferences.
Every single piece in those boxes—down to the silk undergarments currently burning a hole in my peripheral vision—had been meticulously curated, ordered, and tailored to my exact proportions by a man who had apparently spent the last two years silently memorizing every curve of my body.
"The midnight-blue slip," Roman commanded, his voice a low, smooth baritone that effortlessly commanded the quiet room. He didn't look at me; his midnight eyes remained fixed on the rain-slicked city below. "Put it on."
"I have clothes," I retorted, the defiance in my voice sounding thin and reedy to my own ears. After witnessing him effortlessly order a man’s execution by proxy the night before, my rebellion felt entirely performative.
"You have tactical gear suited for a firefight in a maintenance tunnel," Roman corrected smoothly, finally turning away from the glass.
The sheer, physical weight of his gaze pinned me to the slate floor.
"Tonight, we are dining in the main atrium.
You will dress appropriately for my table. Put it on, Sienna."
My jaw clenched so tightly my teeth ached.
I wanted to throw the box at him, but the dark, predatory stillness in his posture promised a terrifying retribution if I pushed him too far.
Snatching the garment from the tissue paper, I retreated into the en-suite bathroom, practically slamming the frosted glass door behind me.
The dress was a weapon masquerading as clothing.
It was constructed of heavy, liquid silk that felt shockingly cool against my heated skin.
There were no sleeves, no heavy structure—just thin, perilous straps and a plunging cowl neck that left the frantic pulse at my collarbone entirely exposed.
I slid it over my head, shivering as the fabric settled intimately against my hips and thighs, pooling elegantly around my bare feet.
It fit flawlessly. The realization made my stomach pitch with a sickening, intoxicating blend of terror and arousal.
I turned around to pull the delicate, hidden zipper up the small of my back, but the fragile metal clasp caught halfway up. I twisted, my fingers slipping awkwardly against the silk, a frustrated hiss escaping my lips.
The frosted glass door clicked open.
I froze, my hands dropping to my sides. Roman stepped into the bathroom, the suffocating, heavy scent of bergamot, dark espresso, and danger instantly devouring the oxygen in the small space.
He didn't ask for permission. He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator who already owned every inch of the territory he walked on.
"Turn around," he murmured.
"I can do it myself," I breathed, my heart hammering a frantic, bruised rhythm against my ribs.
"Turn around, wife."
The soft, lethal command completely bypassed my higher reasoning, striking directly at the primal core of my spine. I slowly rotated, exposing my bare back to him. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for the cold, clinical touch of a guardian checking his asset.
Instead, I felt the searing, entirely ungloved heat of his bare hands.
Roman’s calloused fingertips brushed lightly against the base of my spine, sending a violent, electric shockwave straight through my nervous system.
I gasped, my eyes flying open to stare at our reflection in the massive vanity mirror.
He stood directly behind me, towering over my frame.
His eyes were dark, dilated, and entirely fixated on the expanse of my exposed skin.
He didn't immediately reach for the zipper. His hands settled heavily on the curve of my hips, his thumbs smoothing the liquid silk flat against my hipbones. The touch was agonizingly slow, crossing the invisible boundary between a tailor’s adjustment and a lover’s outright possession.
"You're dressing a doll, Roman," I whispered, my voice trembling entirely out of my control as his hands slowly trailed upward, mapping the curve of my waist.
"Dolls are hollow, fragile things," Roman rasped, his chest brushing against my back as he leaned in. The heavy, rhythmic heat of his breath washed over my bare shoulder. "You are flesh and blood and fire. And I am simply ensuring the armor fits before I present you to the wolves."
He finally grasped the small metal tab of the zipper, but instead of pulling it cleanly, he dragged his knuckles upward along the delicate bumps of my spine.
I shuddered violently, a traitorous whimper catching in the back of my throat.
The zipper hissed, closing the silk tightly against my ribcage, but Roman didn't step away.
His hands slid over my shoulders, his long, warm fingers adjusting the thin straps.
He traced the line of my collarbone, his touch meticulous, obsessive.
He brushed my hair aside, letting his thumb linger heavily on the frantically beating pulse point at the side of my neck.
In the mirror, our eyes met. The stoic, icy Don was entirely gone, replaced by the feral, unhinged monster I had provoked at the wet bar.
"Perfect," he murmured, his voice a guttural scrape of sound that made my knees genuinely weak. His grip tightened for a fraction of a second, entirely possessive, entirely consuming. "You look exactly like you belong to me."
He slowly released me and stepped back, retreating into the cold, impenetrable shell of the syndicate Don before turning and walking out of the bathroom.
I stood frozen before the mirror, my chest heaving, my skin burning everywhere he had touched, terrified by the sudden, undeniable realization that the only thing I wanted more than my freedom was for him to put his hands back on me.