Extra.
579 Words
Aurora’s POV
"Why is he here?" Giovanni’s voice was low, dark—dangerous.
I could feel it radiating off him. Pure, unfiltered bloodlust.
"Giovanni—" I rushed toward him, placing a hand on his chest, but he didn’t move.
His eyes burned into mine. "How does he know about this place?" His voice dripped venom. "Did you invite him? After knowing what he does?"
He took a step closer. I took one back.
"Or… do you still harbor feelings for him?" His lips curled in disgust. "Did you two sit down for coffee and reminisce? Or maybe—" He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Maybe you spread your legs for him. Let him touch you—"
SLAP!
My hand struck his cheek with a crack, his head snapping to the side. A thin trickle of blood ran from his left ear.
"You will not talk to me like that."
Giovanni exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. He turned back to me, licking the blood from his lip. His eyes gleamed—dark, dangerous, entertained.
"Defending him now?" His voice was quiet, but his rage throbbed beneath it. "Is that how deep your bond is? I should’ve just stuck with Charlotte instead of a crazy woman who collects men like pebbles."
SLAP!
His lip split open.
I was breathing hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. "Charlotte? Over me?"
Something inside me snapped.
Giovanni moved before I could react. His hand shot out, wrapping around my throat. He slammed me against the wall, fingers tightening, heat searing into my skin.
My airway burned. My vision blurred at the edges. My lungs screamed for air—but the feeling…
It was thrilling.
His grip was rough, possessive. His expression was pure, raw rage—and I loved it.
I let out a breathless, broken laugh.
His pupils blazed, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips.
"I should have locked you up the night you told me you were mine," he murmured, voice rough, unsteady.
With trembling fingers, I reached up, brushing my hand over his.
"Kill me, Giovanni," I rasped, my voice raw, dark, needy. My eyes bloodshot with something between madness and desire. "I want to die in your hands."
His chest rose and fell, his breath hot against my skin. Then—
He chuckled.
Dark. low, rough, and dangerous.
"You damned tailed fox."
With one swift motion, he yanked my glasses off, tossing them somewhere into the darkness. His grip loosened—just slightly.
"Tighten it," I panted, gasping for air.
"Your neck is already bruised." His voice was husky, almost reluctant. His fingers finally released, but his body stayed close. His leg wedged between mine, pressing me hard against the wall.
His hands slid down, gripping my thighs before lifting me effortlessly.
My legs wrapped around his waist.
He groaned—deep, guttural, raw—as my fingers slid up his neck, nails grazing his skin.
"You only waited a year and a half," he muttered, his forehead pressing against mine. "I waited four damned years."
A slow smirk curled my lips. "Careful with your left hand," I whispered, biting my lip. "You wouldn’t want your stitches to come loose."
His breath hitched. My touch was gentle, teasing.
He let out a shuddering moan as I traced the pulse in his throat.
"F_," he growled before crushing his lips against mine, his hips grinding into me, pressing me harder against the wall.
.
- Writer
