His dark eyes burn as he steps in front of me and cups my chin with his hand.“You’ll have me,” he murmurs.“But you’ll take me the way I give myself.On my terms.”A shiver rolls through me, and I nod.
“Good girl,” he whispers, and just like that, my knees nearly give out.
His mouth crashes against mine in a hard, hungry, possessive claiming.He kisses me like he owns me, his tongue demanding submission.And God, I give it willingly, melting into him with a breathless need.He slides his fingers into my hair and tugs, exposing my throat, then he bites gently along the line of it before trailing down to my collarbone.“Take your clothes off,” he says.“Now.”
I obey, pulse pounding as I peel off each layer.When I stand bare before him, I feel powerful and exposed and completely his.He doesn’t undress all the way…just enough to remind me he’s in control.He unbuckles his belt with a sound that makes my breath catch.
“Lie down.Hands above your head.Don’t move.”I do as he says, heart hammering.
He kneels over me, eyes drinking in every inch of me with a feral hunger.“You’re mine, love.Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper, my body arching into his touch.
“No.”He growls softly.“Say it like you believe it.”
“I’m yours, Damiano.”I moan, louder this time, eyes locked on his.“All of me.”
He rewards me with his mouth on my nipple, his teeth dragging lightly over sensitive skin until I’m writhing beneath him.He sucks and licks the sensitive peak until it is almost too painful.Then he moves to the other breast.He moves his warm hands over my bare skin, eliciting shivers from my oversensitive body.He doesn’t let me touch him, not yet.Every movement is unhurried.Every sound he draws from me is earned.When he finally slides into me, it is with one long, slow thrust that has me gasping and clinging to him, nails digging into his back.
“You feel like heaven wrapped around sin.”He groans against my neck.“You’re going to take every inch of me, and then you’re going to thank me for it.”
“Please,” I beg.“Don’t stop.”
“Not until you can’t walk straight tomorrow.”He takes me hard and deep, pinning mine down with his hands, his breath hot against my cheek.Each thrust feels like a promise, of safety, of surrender, of love wrapped in dominance and heat.When I come, it’s with his name on my lips like a prayer.Then he follows, holding me so tightly I feel it in my soul.
Later, when we are tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling between us, he strokes my hair and murmurs in my ear.“You’re stronger than you know,” he says.“But you don’t have to be strong with me.I’ll be the monster.I’ll be the fire and the shield.You just be mine.”
“I already am,” I whisper.And know I am utterly, completely, irrevocably his.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Lily
Weeks Later
I still wake up some nights with the echo of fear in my lungs.Not screams, not shaking.Silence sits heavy on my chest, like a shadow remembering how it once ruled me.But I breathe through it now.I don’t flinch at every sound.I don’t wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again.Because I do, almost.Therapy has helped a lot more than I expected, honestly.It didn’t erase the hurt, but it gave it shape, a form I could face without crumbling.It helped me put the broken pieces in order.Some are still jagged, some don’t quite fit like they used to, but that’s okay.I’m still me—different maybe, but stronger in the quiet, steady kind of way.And I’ve found a place for that strength.
The women’s shelter is housed in a brownstone Damiano bought a few years ago for “tax purposes.”It smells like coffee, baby wipes and fresh laundry.The walls are covered in children’s crayon drawings and flyers about legal aid and emergency housing.It’s run by women who have seen hell and survived.They don’t ask questions when I show up.They simply hand me a cup of tea and show me where the spare towels are kept.At first, I do nothing more than folding laundry and organizing supplies.But soon I’m sitting with women as they cry, holding trembling hands.Reading to a little girl with a bruise-shaped shadow under one eye.I see parts of myself in every room.I’m not helpless anymore.I have power—he gave me power.I help where and when I can, with medical checks for women’s pets, holding hands during custody calls, patching scraped knees or painting tiny nails.Sometimes I merely sit and listen.That’s all some of them need.Some of them remind me of myself.Of Chiara.
I’ve also met the women I was abducted with, Laura, Issy, Giulia and Anne.It was strange, seeing them without panic in their eyes.There were tears, of course there were, but there was also laughter, defiance.Life.
We exchanged numbers and made promises to keep in touch, to show each other that survival didn’t stop at escaping.
Then today, finally, Chiara came to the shelter with me.She was quiet at first, sticking close to my side like she used to when we were little.I caught her looking at the other women like she was trying to figure out where she fit.Victim?Survivor?Something else?I didn’t push her.I offered her a cup of tea and waited.Eventually, one of the women, a young mom named Emily, sat beside her.They started talking, slowly, carefully.But when I glanced over an hour later, they were laughing, their heads bent together, something unspoken passing between them like shared light.
Chiara is healing too, in her own way.Her scars are different from mine, more hidden maybe, or deeper, but we carry them together now.We don’t avoid the past anymore.We name it.We talk about her mother’s betrayal and her end.We talk about our father’s fall from grace.About how strange it is to grieve someone and still be so angry at them.But most of all, we talk about the future.The one we’re building, piece by piece, without anyone else writing the rules for us.
When I head home that night, I see Damiano’s men stationed discreetly nearby, following my every move, ready to intervene.I don’t even look twice at them anymore.They are part of my life now, as is the danger.But I’ve learned to breathe around it, to thrive despite it.
Damiano is waiting in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, something warm and unreadable in his eyes as he looks at me.He wraps me in his arms and kisses me senseless.Then he leads me through the penthouse to the terrace.
The city outside is casting golden light across the sky while we eat dinner in the soft glow of the fading day.I prattle on and on about my day and he listens, or rather he watches my mouth move, eyes hungry and burning.But he also seems oddly distracted tonight, silent.
After we finish dinner, he pulls me toward the outdoor lounge and seats me on the sofa.I know him well enough now to recognize when something in him is unraveling.
Then he kneels in front of me—kneels—and takes my hands in his.His grip trembles.
“I need to say something, little flower,” he says hoarsely, voice tight with restraint.“And I need you to hear all of it.Even the parts I don’t deserve to say.”
