His Principessa

Chapter 5

Gianna

"Get up," the guard’s voice was a harsh grate, followed by the heavy, metallic thud of the lock turning. I flinched, the sound echoing too loudly in the small room. "The Don wants you. Now."

I scrambled back, my heels digging into the silk sheets. I gripped the fabric until my knuckles turned white, staring at the two men who stepped inside. They didn't look at me like I was a person; they looked at me like a piece of luggage that needed to be moved.

"I'm not going," I whispered. My voice cracked, betraying the terror I was trying to hide. "Tell him I'm staying here."

The first guard didn't argue. He just stepped forward and clamped a hand around my upper arm. His grip was like a vice, bruising and indifferent.

They didn't wait for me to find my footing. They hauled me up, my legs shaking so violently I nearly collapsed. They dragged me out of the room and through the fortress—a maze of dim, drafty hallways that smelled of old stone and dampness. Every step felt like a march toward something I couldn't survive.

When we reached the end of the hall, the guards stopped before two massive mahogany doors. One of them shoved me inside, the heavy wood slamming shut behind me with a finality that made my stomach drop.

The room was huge and swallowed in shadow. The only light came from a fireplace at the far end, where orange flames licked at thick logs, casting dancing shadows across walls lined with leather-bound books.

Luca was there. He was standing by the fire, his suit jacket gone. His white shirt was open at the throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, hair-dusted forearms. He held a glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid slowly, his gray eyes fixed on me with a stillness that was more terrifying than a scream.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the popping of the fire.

"You're shaking, little bird," Luca said. His voice was a low, smooth drawl that seemed to vibrate in the air. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never wavering. "Is it the cold? Or are you finally realizing there's nowhere left to run?"

"It's hatred," I snapped. I forced myself to stand straight, though my teeth were chattering. I wrapped my arms around my chest, trying to hold myself together. "I hate you. I hate this entire place."

Luca let out a short, dry laugh. He set the glass on the mantel with a sharp clink.

"Good," he murmured, starting toward me. He didn't rush; he moved with a slow, heavy confidence, closing the gap between us until the scent of sandalwood and expensive tobacco filled my lungs. "Hatred is useful. It keeps you awake. It keeps you fighting. I'd rather have that than the blank stare of a broken woman."

"Stay back," I warned, stepping backward until the edge of a heavy oak desk hit the back of my legs. "Don't touch me."

He didn't stop. He stepped into my space, towering over me, his heat radiating through my thin dress. He reached out, his fingers grazing my shoulder. I jerked away as if he’d burned me.

"Take off the dress," he commanded.

My breath hitched. I looked up at him, my heart drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

"No."

"What was that?" Luca tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, charged with a dangerous energy.

"I said no," I repeated, my voice trembling but firm. "You bought my father's debt. You bought a piece of paper. But you didn't buy me. I'm not undressing for you."

Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. I waited for him to snap, to yell, or to throw me across the room. Instead, a slow, dark smile touched his lips.

"I love it when you forget who you're talking to," he whispered.

Before I could react, he moved. He didn't ask; he took. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them firmly against the desk behind me, his grip absolute. With his free hand, he reached for the zipper of my dress.

"Stop! Let me go!" I struggled, twisting my body, but he was too strong.

He ignored my pleas, his fingers working the fabric down with a methodical, ruthless patience. He peeled the silk away from my skin, inch by inch, until the dress pooled around my ankles.

I stood there, shivering and exposed in the flickering firelight. I felt the heat of a blush crawl up my neck, a wave of raw humiliation crashing over me.

He stepped back just a fraction, his eyes traveling slowly—agonizingly—down my body, cataloging every curve and every shiver.

"Do you think this is just about your body?" Luca asked softly. He reached out, his thumb catching my chin and forcing me to look at him. "Do you think I brought you here just to f**k you like a common w***e?"

"I don't care what you want," I choked out, a single tear escaping and sliding down my cheek.

Luca’s thumb brushed the tear away. His touch was almost tender, which only made the fear sharper.

"I don't just want your body, Gianna," he whispered, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate promise. "I'm going to take my time. I want your soul."

Before I could even gasp, his mouth crashed onto mine—a fierce, demanding kiss that tasted of whiskey and dominance, stealing the very air from my lungs.