Chapter 008 Isabella
The dress arrived with a collar.
Red silk spilled across the bed like fresh blood, so thin it caught the light and turned sheer in places. Beside it lay a delicate gold band, its chain fine enough to pass for jewelry—until I saw the lock. The kind that doesn’t open without someone else’s key.
I lifted the collar and felt the faint weight of the tracker embedded inside. Military grade. Viktor wasn’t bringing me to a gathering tonight. He was parading me.
The silk slid over my skin like cool water when I stepped into it. The neckline plunged low, the back was nothing but a few gold chains crossing bare skin, and the slit climbed almost to my hip. Someone had measured me while I slept. The thought should have disgusted me. Instead it sent a slow heat curling low in my belly.
The door opened without a knock.
Viktor stood in the frame, black suit cut sharp against his pale eyes. He looked at me the way a man looks at a weapon he’s finally decided to use. Slowly. Thoroughly.
“Turn around.”
I turned. The dress shifted with me, revealing the entire line of my spine. I heard the small, involuntary sound he made.
“The collar,” he said, voice rougher. “Come here, kotyonok.”
His fingers gathered my hair, moving it aside with deliberate care. The gold settled against my throat, cool at first, then warming to my pulse. The lock clicked.
His thumbs brushed the nape of my neck, tracing the edge where metal met skin. Sparks raced down my spine; my nipples tightened against the silk.
“Perfect.” His breath stirred the fine hairs at my ear. “You look exactly like what you are.”
“And what’s that?”
His thumb pressed lightly over the lock. “Owned.”
The word landed between my legs like a fist.
In the car he kept one hand on my thigh, fingers spread wide, claiming the bare skin the slit exposed. His thumb drew slow circles that kept climbing higher, never quite reaching where I ached.
“Remember the rules,” he said, eyes on the dark road. “You speak only if I allow it. You look at no one. You are a broken Moretti princess who knows her place.”
“And if someone speaks to me?”
His grip tightened, nails biting through silk. “They won’t.”
“But if they do?”
He glanced over. Something feral moved behind the ice. “Then I’ll handle it.”
The way he said handle made me picture blood on marble floors. My thighs pressed together without permission.
“Why risk bringing me out at all?” I asked. “You think I’m hiding something. Why give me an audience?”
His smile cut sharp. “Because you control yourself when it’s just us, sofiyushka. Alone, you’re flawless. But surrounded by my men, wearing my collar, dressed like this—how long before the mask slips?”
He wasn’t wrong. The collar shifted with every breath. The silk clung to my nipples. His hand on my thigh kept me wet and off-balance. I hated that he knew.
The estate swallowed us in light and smoke. Chandeliers fractured across marble, cigar smoke thick enough to taste. Conversations stopped when we entered. Every gaze went first to the gold at my throat, then to the dress that barely qualified as clothing, then to Viktor’s hand splayed across the small of my back.
They saw exactly what he wanted them to see: Isabella Moretti, leashed and conquered.
I stood beside him while he spoke in low Russian about shipments and territories, memorizing names, alliances, weaknesses. The collar tugged whenever I turned my head, a constant reminder. Women wore diamonds. I wore ownership.
Whispers followed us.
His pet. Completely broken. Look how she doesn’t fight.
I understood every word and let none of it show. Each insult slid straight between my legs, shame and heat twisting tighter. If they knew I spoke their language—if Viktor knew—everything would change.
Three drinks in, the air shifted.
A lieutenant—Tork—approached, swaying, vodka heavy on his breath. His eyes crawled over me like hands.
“The famous Isabella Moretti,” he slurred. “Viktor, you lucky bastard. When you’re done breaking her in, maybe we could discuss sharing.”
His hand clamped on my ass, fingers digging hard.
Muscle memory took over. My hand flashed toward his wrist, fingers already finding the pressure points for a joint lock that would shatter bone. I was half a heartbeat from dropping him when my brain slammed the brakes. My grip went slack.
But Viktor had seen. His gaze flicked from my hand to my face, recalculating.
The room went quiet.
“Tork,” Viktor said softly. “You mentioned sharing?”
The drunk nodded, oblivious. “Just a thought—”
“Let me share something with you.”
Viktor seized Tork’s wrist—the one that had touched me—and held it up like evidence.
“This hand touched what’s mine.” His voice carried. “Let it be clear. She is mine. Not ours. Not negotiable. Mine.”
The first finger broke with a wet snap. Tork screamed.
“This finger touched her.” Crack. Bone pierced skin.
“And this one.” The ring finger bent backward.
Each break sent a pulse of heat straight to my core. I hated myself for it. My panties were soaked, thighs slick. I stood frozen while blood dotted the marble.
“Every.” Crack. “Single.” Snap. “Finger.”
The pinky went last. Tork collapsed, sobbing, cradling the ruin of his hand.
“Apologize,” Viktor ordered. “Kiss her shoe.”
Tork crawled, leaving a trail of red. He pressed trembling lips to my heel, mumbling apologies. I didn’t move.
Viktor’s hand returned to my back, warm through the silk. “Anyone else want to discuss what’s mine?”
Silence.
“Good. Clean this up.”
Security hauled Tork away. Viktor leaned close, lips brushing my ear.
“Did you enjoy that, kotyonok?”
“I don’t enjoy violence,” I said. My voice sounded steady. My body didn’t feel steady.
His low laugh vibrated against my skin. “Your body disagrees. Pupils blown. Pulse racing.” His voice dropped. “You’re dripping down your thighs.”
Heat flooded my face because he was right.
He steered me through corridors, past guards who suddenly found the walls fascinating. A door opened into a private study—dark wood, leather, the faint scent of his cologne lingering like a threat.
The lock clicked behind us.
One hand wrapped around my throat above the collar, the other fisted in my hair, arching my neck until I had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“That joint lock,” he snarled. “Perfect form. Military precision. Where did a princess learn that?”
My heart hammered against his palm. I tried for wide, empty eyes, but he wasn’t buying it anymore.
“I don’t—”
He laughed, dark and cruel. “Lie again and Tork will look fortunate.”
His free hand dragged the silk up my hips, bunching it at my waist. Fingers slipped beneath my panties and shoved inside without warning.
I was shamefully wet. He slid in to the knuckles on the first thrust.
“Your mouth lies,” he growled, driving deeper. “Your cunt doesn’t.”
I bit my lip to trap the moan. He curled his fingers, found the spot that made my knees buckle, and worked it mercilessly. His thumb circled my clit—slow, then fast, then barely there until I was shaking.
“The truth,” he said, each word punctuated by a thrust. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”
“My brothers,” I gasped. It was partly true—Rocco and Enzo had taught me basics. But not the rest. Not the lethal parts.
He slowed, lips grazing my ear. “Your brothers taught you to shoot. Maybe to throw a punch. Who taught you to kill?”
I stayed silent. He rewarded me by adding a third finger, stretching me until pain and pleasure blurred. The wet sounds filled the room.
“Not good enough.”
He fucked me with his hand until I was panting, hips rocking shamelessly. The orgasm built sharp and fast.
“You’re going to come wearing my collar,” he said. “After fifty men watched me break bones for you. And then you’ll tell me everything.”
He drove me ruthlessly higher. I shattered with a muffled cry against his shoulder, biting wool to stay quiet, body clenching around his fingers in waves.
He held me through it, almost gentle, until the tremors stopped. Then he withdrew slowly, brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, and licked them clean while watching me.
“You taste like secrets.”
He pressed those same fingers to my lips. “Taste yourself.”
I opened. He pushed inside, deep enough to make my eyes water. I tasted my own arousal, sharp and undeniable. My tongue moved against him without permission.
He groaned softly, cock straining against his trousers.
“Your brothers’ self-defense lessons,” he murmured, fucking my mouth with his fingers. “That’s your story?”
I nodded around him.
He pulled free, dragged wet fingers down my chin, my throat, leaving a shining trail.
“There’s more,” he said. “And I’m going to peel away every layer until I find the real you. When I do, you’ll beg to tell me the rest just to have my cock inside you.”
The promise throbbed between my legs even as fury flared hot in my chest. He thought he was stripping me bare. He had no idea I’d walked into this cage on purpose.
“Fix your dress,” he said, stepping back, adjusting himself. “We have another hour. Every man out there needs to smell sex on you and know you’re thoroughly claimed.”
I smoothed the silk down with shaking hands. The collar felt heavier, warm from my skin. I reeked of him, of what he’d done to me.
“Oh, and Isabella?” He paused at the door. “Next time you come, I want to hear my name. Viktor.”
He left me trembling, pussy still pulsing around nothing, trying to remember why I was supposed to hate him.
Trying not to admit how much I already wanted there to be a next time.