The sun is already spilling through the gaps in the blinds when I wake up. I sit up in bed. The place next to me is empty. The Rolex lies neatly on Dante’s pillow as if he expected me to turn my head that way first—toward him. He also knew the first thing I’d look for is the time.
Scoffing, I pick up the watch. He really knows me too well. I hate that he does, but it was my fault for letting him in. Even at nineteen, I should’ve known better. After all, my father warned me about him. So did Leander and my mom.
It’s almost seven.
What?
Rubbing my eyes, I check the time again.
Yep. Seven.
I never sleep so late. Nor does Noah. I’m surprised he hasn’t stormed into the room and jumped onto the bed to demand his breakfast yet. He must’ve been exhausted from all the exercise yesterday. He’s never run so much in one day. He’s playing catchup for all the times he had to stay inside with me and content himself with inventing indoor games.
A rush of tenderness overwhelms me. I can’t deny that the freedom is good for Noah, but it’s only freedom within the confines of a prison. He’s too young to realize he doesn’t have a choice. For someone who’s had very little options up to now, both for safety reasons and a lack of money, being able to play outside and live in a big house must seem like enormous privileges.
Yet Dante won’t keep his own son a prisoner. Noah will grow up and go to school. He’ll become a strong man who’ll make his own decisions. What I dread most is that Dante will mentor him to take over his business.
However, as a man, Noah will have choices women in our families don’t always have. His father won’t be able to force him into something he doesn’t want. The thought that my son will live the life he chooses soothes me. It’s the knowledge I cling to in the uncertain future that spreads darkly in front of me.
Every muscle in my body protests when I get out of bed. Yesterday, I pushed myself to limits I didn’t know I had. I didn’t only work so hard because I wanted to finish the job on time but also because the physical labor helps me not to think about Dante, a subject my mind seems to return to when it’s not occupied.
The worst is the ache between my legs. With every step I take to the shower, I still feel him inside me. I relive every wrecking punch of his hips with the dull pain that throbs deep in my core.
I was too tired to wash my hair last night. As I shampoo the rebellious curls now, my actions automatic and distracted, my mind goes to Dante’s words, to what he’d said before he fucked me last night—that it could be like before.
He’d always been incredibly gentle with me, as if I were made of paper-thin glass that would shatter if he closed his fist a little too tightly around it.
He was right. I made him work hard for me. He’d steal secret touches whenever he could, brushing a finger over my thigh under a restaurant table or cupping my nape in a dominant hold when he walked me to his car. He’d flatten his palm on the small of my back whenever we were out in public where no one would recognize us, a light but possessive touch that was both protective and a warning to other men that I was taken.
When I finally allowed him to kiss me, he conquered my mouth with dexterous but tender skill. His hands on my breasts over my clothes made me ache for him with the most tormenting agony.
Still, I took it slow.
He didn’t unbutton my blouse until another few months later. Even as his hands were steady on my nipples, his fingers exploring with confidence, his self-control was a beautiful thing to admire, a dangerous and savage beast chained in a cage.
The day he dipped his fingers in my panties and I didn’t catch his wrist to stop him, he started making plans. I would’ve been happy to have done it like all my friends of my age, on a blanket in a hidden spot near the beach or on the backseat of his car. But not Dante. He made a big deal out of taking my V-card, going as far as renting a fancy guesthouse on the top floor of a skyscraper in Manhattan.
The self-catering apartment had a Jacuzzi in the bathroom and a pool on the rooftop. He said he didn’t want to take me to a hotel room and make me feel cheap. He was sharing an apartment with a couple of enforcers at the time, so he couldn’t take me there. And doing it in my parents’ condo was out of the question.
He went the whole nine yards with bouquets of flowers—white, of course—so abundant their sweet perfume could be smelled in every room. In contrast, blood-red, velvety rose petals were scattered over the king-size bed.
How’s that for a metaphor?
I never knew Dante could be so symbolic.
Fat, vanilla-scented candles burned on every surface. Champagne to relax me was chilling in an ice bucket, and lavender bubble bath to soak in afterward and relieve the aches he was going to inflict was waiting on the edge of the tub. He even thought about buying a lubricating gel to make it easier for me, as painless as possible.
Before all of that, a private chef cooked us a dinner of seared scallops and baby spinach with a spiced pomegranate glaze that we ate on the deck next to the pool even though I was too nervous to have an appetite. Dante hired the chef, a French native, because he had a reputation for making the best crème brûlée in New York City, my favorite dessert.
The chef left after tidying the kitchen, discreetly and with a finality that suddenly made me panic. But Dante knew me well enough to know how to make me feel safe in his arms. He served me strawberries and chocolates… soft kisses and tender hugs. He made sure every second was perfect.
And then he pulled the rug out from under my feet, making everything he did on the night, how he whispered he’d never let me go as he buried his cock in my body and rocked into me with a steady, careful pace, all the more painful. He made sure I couldn’t think about the night he took my V-card without being ripped apart by the most devastating pain and the deepest betrayal, the memories cruelly sweet. I can never go back to how it was that night, not now that I know it was only part of a clever seduction strategy, a war plan designed by a callous and dangerous man. Returning to the past would only hurt more, serving to remind me how naïve I’d been.
Shaking off those painful memories, I finish my shower and get dressed. The marks on my neck are turning an ugly shade of green, so I hide them with the scarf again. I don’t want to explain them to Noah, and I’m not going to lie to him about how I got those bruises. I’ll tell a white lie if it’s to save him unnecessary anguish, just as I often tell him I’m fine when it’s the furthest thing from the truth, but not about this.
I’m making my way through the lounge when I hear male voices. My instinct goes on high alert. I rush into the lobby, almost crashing into Reino and one of Dante’s guards.
“Morning.” Reino smiles. “I hope we didn’t wake you. We tried to be quiet.”