Chapter 8 #3
Candles line the perimeter, dozens of them, their flames dancing against walls painted a deep black.
Swirls of scarlet red twist and curl across the darkened surfaces like someone let their creativity take the brush wherever it wanted to go.
The effect is captivating and terrifying in equal measure, a space designed to strip away pretense and leave only raw, desperate truth behind.
The air smells of roses, thick and sweet, saturating my senses until I can taste the petals on my tongue.
Vases of them scatter throughout the room, blood-red blooms nestled among cream and blush, their fragrance almost overwhelming in the enclosed space.
It's like stepping into a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare dressed in beautiful clothes.
At the center, on a pedestal draped in black velvet, sits a box made of dark wood and gold filigree. The wish box. It gleams in the candlelight like something sacred, something that has witnessed countless desperate prayers and impossible hopes.
A small table beside the box holds a stack of red envelopes and a fountain pen, the materials provided for those who have come to beg for miracles.
What do I wish for?
The question spirals through me. Freedom? Safety? Love? All things that feel impossibly out of reach, trapped as I am in a marriage I didn't choose with a man I can't trust. Someone to take out my father? Someone to make me disappear?
But one word keeps rising to the surface. One desperate, selfish, terrified word.
I press pen to paper.
"I wish someone would make my mistake disappear." - Ilona
The ink gleams wet for a moment before drying.
I fold the paper carefully and slip it into one of the red envelopes, sealing the flap with trembling fingers.
The envelope feels heavier than it should, weighted with all my fear and desperation and fragile hope.
I drop it through the slot in the box, and it falls into darkness with a soft whisper of paper against wood.
I don't know what mistake I mean. The pregnancy? The marriage? The night that started it all? Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. Maybe the mistake is the part of me that keeps hoping this will somehow work out.
I make it back to Ember House before anyone notices I'm gone. Luca's eyes find mine across the room the moment I slip through the door, dark and searching, but I arrange my features into pleasant neutrality and rejoin the celebration like I never left.
The rest of the reception passes in a blur of champagne and congratulations and Luca's hand warm against the small of my back.
By the time we return to the Lincoln Park mansion, I'm exhausted in ways that have nothing to do with physical tiredness.
I turn toward the hallway that leads to my guest room, already craving the safety of that small rebellion, but Luca's hand catches my elbow.
"Wrong direction, jungle flower." His voice is low, threaded with a heat that makes my skin prickle.
Before I can protest, he sweeps me into his powerful arms. One arm hooks beneath my knees, the other braces my back, and suddenly my feet are no longer touching the ground. I gasp and grab his shoulders for balance, my fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath his shirt.
"I can walk," I manage, though my voice comes out breathless.
"Mm. I know." He carries me down the opposite hallway, his stride unhurried, his dark eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes heat curl low in my belly. "But from this night forward, we never sleep alone. Whatever else this marriage is or isn't, we face the nights together."
He shoulders open a door and carries me across the threshold like a bride in truth rather than transaction.
The master bedroom is nothing like the guest room.
It’s larger and much more personal. There’s a massive bed draped in dark silk that dominates the space, flanked by windows that overlook a private garden.
Candles flicker on the nightstands, casting dancing shadows across walls lined with more books and what looks like original artwork.
Obviously placed there by staff not too long ago.
He sets me down in the center of the bed, the silk cool against my bare legs. He stands over me for a moment. The candlelight plays across his features, softening the sharp edges, making him look almost tender.
I was almost safe, but now I feel like I’m deep in enemy territory with no support.
"Your conditions." His voice is low, careful. "I remember them. I won't touch you until you ask." He moves toward the bed, his fingers working the buttons of his shirt. "But I am going to hold you."
I watch him undress with a detachment I don't actually feel. The shirt falls away, revealing the panther and the viper, the chains and roses, all that dangerous art mapped across a body I've explored with my hands and mouth.
The rat bastard is playing dirty.
He strips down to black boxers and slides beneath the covers, propping himself against the headboard, watching me with patient heat.
"Come to bed, jungle flower."
I should argue. Should demand to sleep in the guest room. Should maintain the distance that's the only thing protecting my sanity.
Instead, I turn my back to him and reach for the zipper of my dress.
I let the silk pool at my feet slowly, deliberately, feeling the weight of his gaze on every inch of skin I reveal.
The dress didn't allow for a bra, so there's nothing but bare skin from the waist up.
My only remaining scrap of modesty is the white silk thong I chose this morning, cut high on my hips to avoid panty lines, leaving very little to the imagination.
I take my time stepping out of the puddle of white at my feet. Roll my shoulders back. Let him look.
A low rumble of appreciation vibrates through the room, and the sound sends a flush of heat racing down my spine. I glance over my shoulder, unable to resist, and find exactly what I hoped for.
His dark eyes have gone molten, burning with a hunger he makes no effort to hide.
His jaw is tight, the muscle ticking beneath his beard.
His hands hang at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he's fighting the urge to reach for me.
The evidence of his desire strains against his boxers, impossible to miss, and a thrill of feminine power courses through my veins.
Good. Let him want. Let him burn. Let him understand exactly what he'll be denied until I decide otherwise.
I hold his gaze for one long, charged moment. Then I turn and cross to the bed, letting my hips sway with each step, and slide beneath the sheets with the stubborn pride that's gotten me through twenty-two years of captivity.
The moment my head hits the pillow, his arm wraps around my waist.
Warm. Solid. He pulls me against his chest, my back to his front, and the sensation is so achingly familiar that tears prick my eyes. This is how we slept that first night. Tangled together like we'd known each other forever. Like we fit.
"Why me?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "You could have anyone. Women throw themselves at men like you."
His lips brush my hair, his breath warm against my scalp.
"I've had enough meaningless connections.
" The words are rough, honest in a way that makes my chest ache.
"They were transactions that left me feeling empty and with less inside me than when I started.
" His arm tightens around me. "You're not a transaction, Ilona.
You're the first woman I've wanted for myself in longer than I can remember. Ever, if I'm being honest."
I should hate that answer. Should dissect it for manipulation, for angles, for the leverage men like him are always working.
Instead, I turn in his arms.
His eyes are dark in the candlelight, molten with a hunger he's holding on a tight leash. His hand comes up to trace my jaw, his thumb brushing my lower lip with devastating gentleness.
"What happens now?" My voice is barely a whisper.
"Whatever you want." His forehead drops to rest against mine. "I told you. Your conditions. Your choices. I'm not going to take anything you don't freely give."
I should pull away. Should remember the blackmail and the lies and the wish I dropped in that box only hours ago.
My hand slides up his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin barrier of his boxers, the rapid pound of his heart beneath my palm. I rise up on my elbow, my gaze dropping to his mouth, to those full lips that have haunted my dreams for eight weeks.
I don't let myself think. Don't let myself second-guess.
I press my lips to his.
His groan vibrates through me as our mouths meet.
The kiss is nothing like the gentle brush at the courthouse.
This is hunger he’s kept leashed all day, finally let off the chain.
His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the angle.
His tongue sweeps against mine, tasting, claiming, and my body arches into his without conscious thought.
Heat pools low in my belly. My thighs press together. Every nerve ending comes alive beneath his touch.
His hand slides down my side, over my hip, gripping my thigh and pulling my leg over his. The position presses me against the hard length of him, separated only by thin fabric, and the friction makes me gasp.
"Tell me to stop." His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will."
I don't tell him to stop.
I kiss him harder.
His hand slides beneath the sheet, fingers hooking into the silk at my hip, and I'm about to forget every promise I made myself about keeping my distance when his phone shatters the moment.
The sound is sharp and insistent, cutting through the haze of want like a blade.
He doesn't even flinch. His mouth stays fused to mine, his hand tightening on my hip like he can block out the world through sheer force of will.
"Luca." I break the kiss, breathless, my palm pressing against his chest. "Your phone."
"It can wait." He chases my mouth, capturing my lower lip between his teeth, and the scrape of it nearly undoes my resolve.
"It can't." I turn my head, and his lips land on my jaw instead, trailing hot and hungry down my neck. My eyes flutter closed. Focus, Ilona. "That ringtone. Is it important?"
He stills against my throat, his breath coming in harsh pants against my skin. A low growl of frustration vibrates through his chest.
"It's for emergencies only."
"Then you need to answer it." I force the words out even as my body screams at me to pull him back. "You have people who depend on you. Brothers. Responsibilities. You can't ignore that for..." I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
For me. For this. For whatever reckless thing we're about to do.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the conflict in his gaze makes my chest ache. Hunger wars with duty, desire with responsibility. For a long moment, I think he's going to ignore me and kiss me senseless anyway.
Then his jaw tightens, and he pulls away.
The loss of his warmth leaves me cold despite the silk sheets. I watch him grab his phone from the nightstand, watch his shoulders tense as he reads the screen.
"I'll be right back." He leans down and presses a hard, brief kiss to my lips, his voice rough with promise. "Do not move."
He disappears into the hallway, and I'm left alone in his bed, my body thrumming with unspent desire.
Thank God.
The thought crashes over me like cold water, dousing the flames he stoked so easily.
Thank God something stopped me. Thank God I didn't make another mistake, didn't give him another piece of myself I can never get back.
My hand drifts to my belly, to the life growing there, already proof of what happens when I let desire override sense.
I needed that interruption. Even if my body hates me for it.
By the time he returns, I've lost the battle with exhaustion. I feel him slide in beside me, feel his arms wrap around me, feel his lips brush my temple.
"Sleep, jungle flower," he murmurs against my hair. "We have time."
His heartbeat is steady against my back. His breath is warm against my hair. And despite everything, despite the lies and the blackmail and the trap closing around us both, I feel something I haven't felt in years.
Safe.
I hate how right it feels.
I hate that I don't want him to let go.