Page 41 of Brutal Vows

I’ve never spat at a man before, but the urge is surging up. My chest strains against his as I gather a breath, but he senses my intention and smiles. The fucker actually smiles.

Then he drops his face to mine, so low there’s no point in spitting at it. He shifts with the move, his leg dragging in an agonizingly delicious slow grind over the apex of my thighs. He shifts again, and this time, the teasing against my sex is more intense, intentional. I strangle a moan, but don’t quite manage.

He traces a line with his lips along my temple and whispers, “Try spit in my face now, mia bellissima streghetta. We can go at it until you score a home run. No pressure; we have the whole day.”

20

LUCA

“I hate you, so much,” Milana chokes out, and I close my eyes.

Not as much as I hate myself, and that I have to do this to her. She’s so delicate, from the floral scent of her hair to the softest skin at her temple, her female body so easy to dominate.

I should let her go. I should move off her, but she hasn’t calmed yet. Her breathing is ragged, strained, and she’ll lash out again. I don’t blame her. Being contained like this isn’t new to me. I’ve grown up with it, but I get the fucking frustration.

For a moment, I just breathe her in, every sense more alert as soon as I close my eyes to avoid looking at her, knowing I’ll only find the agony of her situation reflecting in her gaze. But the way she pushes into me, the quiver that runs through her every time I shift, throws fuel on the fire. The need to rock into her is almost overpowering.

That little moan told me everything. Fuck, she’ll kill my control if she does it again. She isn’t immune to me; in fact, I’ll go so far as to say she wants this…needs this.

A sob rips through her, but she smothers it, and I run my nose along her hairline.

“It’s going to be okay, Milana,” I murmur. “It’s just for now. I can’t— I won’t— No, we won’t let anything happen to hurt you or Gabriella.” I squeeze her wrists, wanting to stress my point. “Understand we’re doing this to keep you safe. Five women were brutally murdered in Italy. Five. Tortured for information and torched—dead or alive, we’re not sure—but the pattern is always the same.”

She flinches at my words. “Which means they don’t know she’s here. They’re looking for her in Italy.”

“We can’t take any risks.”

It takes another thirty seconds for the fight to seep out of her. Her rigid legs relax against mine, her straining arms collapse, and she becomes soft and pliant underneath me.

Fuck. This is more dangerous. Now all I want is to stroke down the length of her arm, over her breast, down to her stomach. Echo the touch with my lips. I want to unbutton her jeans and slide a finger along her panty line, slowly, sensually, to the point where she’ll widen her legs, begging for more without a word, letting me in.

Letting me undress her, so I can love every inch of her skin until I find how she’s been marked as Bratva property. Letting me find the tattoo so I can contour and color it in with my lips, or find the scarification so I can trace it with the lightest of touches, erasing the pain with my fingertips. And then, letting me dip into the most private part of her where she’s been pierced, and play with it, circle it, roll my tongue over it until she comes⁠—

“Luca.”

It’s a soft plea, and I let go of her wrists as she turns her head to the sofa, sending me a clear message. I push off before she can shove me away. I sit beside her, cursing my fucking erection that’s drilling through my jeans like a fucking sand worm straight out of Dune. There’s no hiding it, and she felt it already.

She doesn’t move, but cups her hands to her face as quiet tears stream down, disappearing into her hair.

In my mind’s eye, I see a whole year going past like this: Milana weeping on the sofa, me wanting to comfort her in every way possible, but not really knowing how.

“I know this sucks,” I say softly. “You might not care or believe this, but I understand everything about having no freedom.”

“You’re a man,” she says with a sniff. “What do you even know about being a woman, let alone one in the Mafia…in the Bratva?”

“I know nothing about being a woman, but I’m just a spare, Milana. For my twin, Stephano.” I push back on the red flag in my periphery—don’t share too much. But she’s my wife. She should know this about me.

“A spare? Are you identical?”

“Yes.” I shake my head and sigh. “When I was a young teen, our Don already started curbing my freedom. We were home-schooled, so didn’t have a long leash to begin with. The older boys were luckier in that way: they got out often, working jobs, doing things for our Don, but not us younger bunch. My father started blocking me from doing stuff, hiding me. Only the inner circle knew my whereabouts. I slowly slipped into obscurity of sorts. It’s been seventeen years that I’ve been living this weird double life, always behind the scenes.”

She sits up, crosses her legs, and pulls one of the new throw pillows to her chest. “You get to go out on your motorbike, buy yachts, live that life.”

“My freedom was earned.”

Sealed when the Don died. Fuck, that took forever. And now, Stephano is in Italy, my final green light. Then I got married into the Bratva. I chuckle drily. I planned to get off this rollercoaster, but it never stops long enough for me to clamber the fuck off; it just keeps on going.

“How?”