He sat on the edge of the couch and brushed my hair back from my face.His expression had softened slightly, though his eyes still held that dark satisfaction.
“Next time you feel the need to run,” he said quietly, “remember what awaits you when I catch you.”
I closed my eyes and felt fresh tears slip down my temples.
Because the worst part wasn’t the punishment.Wasn’t the pain or the degradation or the way he’d reduced me to begging.
The worst part was that I’d meant what I’d said.
I was his.
And some traitorous part of me didn’t want to be anything else.
Dante helped me in silence, providing a conservative dress.My hands weren’t cooperating, still shaking from the aftermath, so he did most of the work -- guiding my arms through sleeves, fastening the zipper, smoothing fabric over skin that felt raw and oversensitive.The torn panties went into the trash.The dress -- my symbol of freedom -- he folded carefully before tucking it under his arm like evidence.
“Can you walk?”His voice had returned to that measured calm, like he hadn’t just fucked me against a wall while I begged for release.
I tried to stand.My legs wobbled, threatening to give out completely.Before I could fall, he lifted me -- one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back.Carried me like I weighed nothing.
The bar’s back exit led to an alley where a black car waited, engine running.His driver stood by the open rear door, his expression carefully neutral.He’d seen this before, probably.Women being carried from private rooms by powerful men.Nothing unusual in his world.
Dante settled me in the back seat and slid in beside me.The door closed with a soft click that felt final, sealing me back into the life I’d tried to escape.
The drive back was silent.I pressed my face against the cool window and watched the city pass -- the shopping district where I’d felt free for three hours, the café where I’d drunk espresso just to be somewhere else, the streets I’d walked thinking I’d actually escaped.
All of it already feeling like a dream.Or a nightmare.
My body ached.Not just from the belt strikes, though those throbbed with every small movement.From everything.From being held in place, the intensity of the orgasm he’d wrung from me, and the way I’d broken apart and admitted truths I’d wanted to keep buried.
Dante’s hand found mine in my lap, his fingers threading through mine.The gesture should have been comforting.Instead, it felt like ownership.A physical reminder of what he’d proven in that private room.
I belonged to him now.Completely.
Back at the building, the penthouse elevator required his key code.He entered it one-handed, still holding me, then carried me down the hallway past my bedroom.My room.The space he’d designated as mine.
He took me to his bedroom instead.
The master suite was larger than my entire living space at Papa’s estate.Floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls.A king-size bed that could fit six people.Furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum -- all dark wood and clean lines and the kind of expensive simplicity that screamed money.
But he carried me past all of it to the bathroom.
Marble everywhere.A shower large enough for eight people.A tub that looked more like a small pool, already filling with steaming water while I tried to figure out when he’d signaled someone to prepare it.
He set me on the edge of the tub and began unfastening the dress he’d just zipped twenty minutes ago.This time I didn’t fight him.Didn’t have the energy for resistance.
The dress came off.He lifted me again and lowered me into the water with a gentleness that made my chest ache.
The heat stung against the welts on my backside and thighs.I sucked in a breath, my fingers gripping the edge of the tub.
Dante knelt beside the tub, rolled his sleeves up higher.He had products lined up on the edge -- expensive oils and soaps, the kind with French labels and ingredients I couldn’t pronounce.He poured something into the water that smelled like lavender and eucalyptus.
Then he began washing me.
Not roughly.Not possessively.With the same methodical care he applied to everything else.He soaped a cloth and ran it over my shoulders, down my arms, across my collarbone.Avoiding the marks he’d left, careful not to cause more pain.
I sat there and let him.Watched him work with an expression I couldn’t read.This was the same man who’d striped my ass with a belt.Who’d fucked me while I was bound and begging.Who’d reduced me to admitting ownership I’d sworn I’d never acknowledge.
Now he was bathing me like I was something precious.Something that might break.
