I trail my mouth lower, across the soft expanse of her chest, pushing the fabric of my shirt aside. My tongue follows the faint line of her sternum, focusing on the vulnerable places, marking them now as sacred.
She gasps, a soft, low sound of pure sensation that vibrates against my lips. Her fingers thread through my hair, guiding me, but I keep the pace agonizingly slow, deliberate.
I move to the rest of her body, exploring her skin with the reverence of a man who has been starved for air. I kiss the soft, unmarred skin of her abdomen, pressing my mouth to the flat plane of her stomach, lingering there, pressing deep, feeling the familiar, hot tension coil beneath my touch.
I move further still, lower, sinking into the hidden softness of her inner thigh. I part her gently, my hands framing her hips, steadying her.
She is already slick, hot, responding to the total focus of my attention. My breath hitches, but I maintain the slow, unwavering pace. I use my mouth, my tongue, my hands, every part of me dedicated entirely to her pleasure, her safety, her recovery.
She arches off the mattress, a low, guttural moan building in her throat. She is completely undone, lost to the sensations I am meticulously building within her. I am consumed by the need to prove to her—and to myself—that the pain is over, that only this heat, this pleasure, this absolute security remains.
When the climax hits, it's not a violent burst, but a slow, shattering wave that tears a choked sob from her lips. She cries out my name, a broken, beautiful sound of release that wraps around me like a promise.
Only then, when her tremors subside, when her body is heavy and pliant beneath my hands, do I move. I rise above her, looking down into her eyes, which are wide, dark pools reflecting only me.
I enter her slowly, deeply, with a tenderness that feels alien and terrifying, yet utterly necessary. My movements are steady, rhythmic, utterly controlled, my entire focus fixed on the feeling of her skin stretched taut beneath mine, the knowledge that she is here.
I hold myself back, savoring the feeling of being home, of being anchored to her. I bury my face in the curve of her neck, my breathhot against her skin, finally allowing the tension of the last two days to break.
I love you, Bella. I love you.The words are unspoken, trapped in the back of my throat, but they are in every kiss, every thrust, every shuddering breath.
I knew I needed to give them to her. Needed them out in the open so I could let her know precisely what they meant to me.
"I love you, Bella," I whispered against her ear. Her lips trembled for just a moment and then her eyes met mine.
"I love you." She whispered. I closed my eyes, allowing the words to wrap around me and heal me in places I didn't know needed healing.
When I finally allow myself the release, it is a desperate, guttural sound, a reclaiming of territory, a final, binding oath. I collapse onto her, heavy and whole.
I close my eyes, pulling her tighter, feeling the soft weight of her hip bones against mine. We are alive. We are safe. And nothing else matters.
"Welcome home,mia Bella," I whisper into her hair, holding her so tightly like she might slip away if I don't have a hold of her.
I'll never let go.
Chapter 27
Morning sunlight cuts through the blinds in thin, uneven stripes, washing over my massive mahogany desk. The air in the office is cool, sterile, and still—the typical quiet after a bloody cleanup.
The phone buzzes once—a harsh, immediate sound. The name flashing across the screen— Viktor Volkov—freezes the air in my lungs.
I stare at it for a beat, letting the implications sink in. The head of the Volkov organization. The man whose peripheral shadow led to Isabella's kidnapping. I answer only when I've hardened my voice into its most precise, unyielding tone.
"Volkov."
"Moretti." The voice on the other end is deep, accented, and smooth as oil, lacking any hint of the chaos his organization just caused. "I trust your woman has recovered."
My jaw flexes, a reflexive clench of control. The directness of the reference is both a threat and a confirmation of his awareness. "She's alive. Her brother isn't walking free, if that's what you're asking. He'll pay every debt he accrued."
"I'm not," he says, calm, deliberate. "I called because there are… misunderstandings between us. It seems our former associate—your woman's brother—was operating entirely on his own. He went rogue. His actions against you were not sanctioned by me or mine. His chaos was his own foolish undertaking."
I lean back slowly in the leather chair, letting the expensive hide creak in the silence. My fingers drum once against the polished wood of the desk, the sound loud in the quiet room. "You expect me to believe that? That he acted alone while doing business in your territory with your money? That he wasn't a useful lever to push into my own house?"
A short, dry laugh slides through the receiver. "You've been at this as long as I have, Dante. You know there's always one fool who thinks he's smarter than the men who own him. The fool pays. The rest keep their peace. We have no interest in upsetting the balance of the North-Eastern territories over a pathetic, compromised debt-dodger."
He was making a show of disowning Danny, a public execution of his usefulness. It was plausible, but it didn't lessen the damage. I let the silence stretch long enough for the distance and the danger to press against him.
"You want peace?" I finally ask, my voice rough.
