Chapter 80 Milo
Milo
Octavia sleeps on my chest, her breathing slow and deep, completely unaware of the war raging in my head. She looks soft and fragile like this.
I can still taste her on my lips, she tastes exactly as I knew she would—dangerous, addictive, moreish.
The more she gave, the more I wanted, until wanting tipped into something deeper.
Need.
I am already an addict where she’s concerned. I need her morning, noon, and night.
I will have to convince her to let me sleep in her bed when we return to the academy, because now that I know how this feels, I won’t be able to go back to an empty one. But that is a concern for another time.
She let me touch her.
And fuck…
When she wakes, she might take what happened between us well, or she might spiral. I knew she wasn’t ready for more.
But she will be soon.
That’s the thing about my obsession with Octavia Bellanti. It isn’t about her body alone.
Yes, she’s exquisite, built for sin, made to be held, claimed, worshipped, but that isn’t what keeps me awake at night.
It’s the hurt in her eyes.
The damaged part.
Something terrible happened to her. Something deeper than the scars she lets the world see. I don’t know what it is yet, but I will find out, and when I do, I will annihilate whoever put that look in her eyes.
Because no one touches what’s mine.
I was so caught up in worshipping her that I didn’t notice the cuts on her skin. It was dark then, easy to miss. But now, as the morning light slips into the room, I see them clearly.
The sight hits hard, a blow to the gut… my girl, my precious, gorgeous girl, she is hurting herself.
I clench my jaw, my hands curling tight as tension builds through me. I am wound too tight, ready to snap.
She shifts against me and I take a deep breath.
She needs rest.
But we will talk about this.
I won’t stand by and let her hurt herself. The thought alone is enough to drive me mad.
Why, baby?
Fucking why?
I keep my eyes on her, unwilling to look away from the serene calm of her face.
My phone vibrates on the nightstand and I finally force myself to glance away. I lift it carefully, making sure I don’t disturb her.
The message is brief.
Useless, in fact.
My jaw tightens.
I sent my men to dig. So far, they’ve come back empty handed.
No leads, or names.
Nothing.
This was the second attack on my girl, and the patience I don’t possess is wearing thin. I can feel it now, that restless edge, the familiar itch under my skin.
When I find the person who sent those men after Octavia…
Once might have been coincidence. Twice is no accident. Someone is targeting her.
And that is what frightens me, because nothing in this world ever used to, until her.
Now the thought of her in danger makes me want to start shooting left and right, panic crashes through me so hard I can’t tell if I’m on the verge of a heart attack, an aneurysm, or both at the same damn time.
Whoever is doing this wants to take her.
Take her away from me.
That will not happen.
I have already ordered my men to comb the black market, to look into anyone who might profit from her disappearance. The Bellantis have enemies, too many to count, and I hate that I don’t know which of them this might be.
I hate not knowing.
I hate not being in control.
This could also be personal.
My thoughts drift to her other life, and I can’t deny the surge of pride that follows. I have heard the whispers myself, rumours of someone targeting the men who traffic girls.
Death they call her.
Then I saw her with my own eyes, caught in the act, and it took me less than a minute to confirm what I already suspected.
It is her.
My beautiful girl.
A queen.
My fucking queen.
Even my damn father mentioned it once in passing, mocking it.
Turns out she’s real.
And she’s mine.
I text my man back with new instructions, to dig deeper, and focus on influential men, traffickers, predators. Anyone powerful to retaliate. Because I would be a fool to leave this only to those who oppose Octavia taking over the Bellanti mafia.
I send the message just as she stirs.
Her lashes flutter. Her green eyes open slowly, unfocused and heavy with sleep. Her hair is a mess, her cheek warm on my skin.
She looks impossibly soft.
Utterly mine.
“Morning,” she murmurs.
She realises how close we are, that she’s naked with only the cover between us, while I’m still in my boxers, and her cheeks colour faintly.
“What time is it?” she asks, just as voices drift up from downstairs. Those idiots don’t know how to be quiet. “We’re going to be late.”
I don’t tell her there’s nowhere she really needs to be. Yes, we’re meant to go skiing with the group, and yes, we are technically late, but we’re on holiday. Nothing is required of her.
But I let her keep the illusion of control.
She rolls out of bed and disappears into the bathroom.
I watch her go, amused despite myself.
She always runs.
I always chase.
And when she’s ready, I’ll catch her.