Chapter 3: I Will Break You
1090 Words
Sophia Santos
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Sophia sat on the bed and rubbed her wrists.
They were free now, but the feeling of the restraints still lingered in her muscles.
She crossed her legs and rubbed her ankles too, one after the other.
She scanned the room.
It was too clean. Too quiet.
Silk sheets. Soft lighting. Thick doors.
No visible guards. But there were at least two outside.
She didn’t need to see them to know.
She’d scanned the whole route on her way here.
Two exits, one likely locked. Hidden cameras. The room she was in was the only one along the extended hallway.
She heard the door handle turn.
Sophia stood up swiftly. Prepared.
Romano Renzi walked in slowly.
He closed the door behind him. That little click made her stomach drop.
He looked at her. His eyes dim and ice-cold.
Sophia met his gaze. His dark eyes were fixated on her face, and she hated how her pulse spiked.
Sophia felt that invisible pressure again, pressing against her ribs, trying to force her to react.
She didn’t.
Romano walked toward her—slow, unhurried. He stopped a few feet away.
He was close. He studied her. Assessing.
His gaze sharpened. Sophia didn’t break eye contact.
She held her ground. Lifted her chin.
She had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze, and she hated that too—hated every inch of height he had on her.
“Your husband abandoned you. No tears?”
“No attachment,” She replied instantly.
She saw it.
A sharp flicker in his eyes. Interest.
Then he smiled.
“Did you love him?”
Sophia hesitated.
“No.”
He smirked.
“Did he know that?”
“He knew enough.”
He paused.
He was calculating.
Sophia leaned back slightly, shifting to the side, trying to move away. Trying to take control back by inches.
A mistake.
His hand closed around her throat—brutal, controlled, firm. His thumb rested at her pulse, pressing in with just enough force to make her aware, not enough to block blood flow.
Her hands flew to his wrist, but she didn’t pull away.
He walked her back until her shoulders hit the wall.
“You don’t f*****g walk away from me when I’m addressing you.”
“Let go of me.” She barely recognized her own voice.
“No.”
He leaned in. His mouth dropped to her ear. His breath was warm. His jaw grazed her hair.
Her eyes slipped shut before she could stop them.
“Are you going to fight me, Sophia?”
Say yes. Curse him out.
She said nothing.
“Because I’ll enjoy it if you do.”
His voice. God, she hated how low and unbothered he sounded. Like nothing in the world could shake him. Like she couldn’t shake him.
The words moved through her like something electric and shameful, and she felt the heat flood through her stomach, pooling low.
She hated her own body for it.
He pulled back and looked at her face. Something in his expression shifted to something dark. Something hungry.
Her knees felt unreliable.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair—slowly, menacingly—and tilted her head back. Her gasp came out before she could swallow it. The pull was sharp, and her scalp tingled. A rush of warm sensation ran straight through her center.
“I told you I’m going to break you.”
“I hate you,” she breathed.
“I know.” He said it like it was unimportant. “Doesn’t change anything.”
His mouth moved down her jaw. To her neck. His teeth caught her skin—not gently—and a sound escaped her throat that she would have given anything to take back.
Her fingers gripped his wrist. Clinging, not pushing.
Traitor, she told her own hands.
He led her to the bed.
“Move.”
And she did. Her legs carried her there, and she hated them for it. Her thighs were already trembling, heat gathering between them, and they hadn’t even—
Stop. Stop reacting to him.
He turned her. She felt the zipper of her dress give in one smooth pull—effortless, practiced. The fabric fell at her feet. The cool air touched her skin, and she crossed her arms over her chest.
His hands forced them back to her sides.
She let him.
Why did you let him?
“Don’t hide from me,” His voice was menacingly low.
Her bra followed. She felt it fall. His gaze moved over her—slow, thorough, possessive—and her face burned even as her body betrayed her under the weight of it.
Then his mouth closed over her breast. Her mind went blank.
The moan escaped her, loud and mortifying. Her hand gripped his shoulder—seeking an anchor—as he sucked hungrily. When his fingers pinched her other n****e, she cried out, her head falling back, vision blurring at the edges.
This is wrong. This is—
Her legs gave out.
She fell back onto the bed. Her chest was heaving, her whole body shaking, and when she found the focus to look up at him—standing over her, those dark eyes fixed on her like she was something to be consumed—her stomach flipped.
She felt the wetness on her own thighs. Warm. Unmistakable.
Don’t look. Don’t let him see.
“You’re soaked.”
His voice was rough. She turned her face away, her cheeks on fire.
His hand caught her chin and turned her back.
“Keep your eyes on me.”
She looked. She hated that she looked.
His finger traced her inner thigh—slow, deliberate.
Her stomach contracted.
She tried to lie still. She couldn’t. Her legs trembled.
He hooked into her panties, dragging them down—slow—and then—
BAM!
The door slammed open.
Sophia jerked upright.
She was in the bed.
Alone.
No hands on her. No weight. No heat.
Her thighs pressed together instinctively.
Humiliation burned through her.
A dream.
It was a dream.
Then she looked up.
Romano Renzi stood at the entrance, holding a file.
Barefoot. Hair damp. A dark robe hung loosely from his shoulders, tied carelessly at the waist, exposing a slice of his chest—water trailing down his skin.
The man who had been inside her dreams was standing at the door.
Watching.
And he looked far more dangerous than anything her mind had imagined.
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