Control
1184 Words
Amara remained under the blanket, aware of the warmth on her shoulder where his touch had been trailing down her scar.
The warmth hadn’t faded.
And neither had the confusion.
Her fingers twitched against the sheets.
She didn’t trust him.
But she needed answers.
And lying here, in his bed, felt like surrender.
No.
Whatever twisted game Lorenzo was playing, she wouldn’t play it.
She sat up slowly. The oversized shirt he’d left her slipped down one shoulder, brushing her thighs as she moved.
Barely herself.
Across the room, a full set of clothes lay folded on prepared for her rested on a chair. Folded neatly, each piece placed with precision
Clean.
Precisely arranged.
The detail sent a chill down her spine.
Still, at least she wouldn’t be walking out of his room looking like a hostage.
She dressed slowly, her fingers trembling more from the hangover than nerves. But when she looked at her reflection in the mirror, she realised something else.
He hadn’t hurt her.
She turned slightly. Checked her arms. Her neck. Her thighs.
Nothing.
He hadn’t touched her.
He’d had every chance.
Multiple chances.
And he hadn’t.
- - -
The hallway outside was quiet.
Cool.
Dimly lit by tall arched windows that cast thin beams of silver light onto the polished floors.
This must be another wing of the mansion, Amara thought, her bare feet cold on the marble.
She moved slowly, cautiously, following the soft curl of instrumental music floating through the air. Welcoming her, an invisible thread pulling her toward a door on the left.
Ajar.
Inviting.
She stepped in.
And froze.
She pushed it open and stopped cold.
It was the art studio Camilla had once shown her.
Sunlight spilled through massive windows, flooding the space with golden warmth. Easels stood ready. Canvases lined the walls. Sculpting tools, brushes, and palettes rested on shelves, sorted meticulously by size, colour, medium.
Everything she hadn’t realised she missed.
She took a step inside.
Then another.
On the central table was a new sketchpad, crisp pages bound in leather. Beside it, a set of graphite pencils in a wooden case.
She ran her fingers over the cover like it was sacred.
"Do you need anything else, Amara?"
She spun around.
Lorenzo stood at the far end of the room, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest.
She stared at him. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “I'm good in remember things.”
She didn’t believe him.
And yet… part of her wanted to.
“It doesn’t change anything,” she said sharply. “I’m still your prisoner.”
“You’re not chained.”
“Not physically.”
He stepped closer, slow and calm. “If I were the monster you think I am, you’d be dead already.”
“That’s supposed to comfort me?”
“No,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It’s meant to make you ask yourself why, despite everything, I haven’t laid a hand on you..”
She stepped back. “What is your real intention, Lorenzo?”
He stared at her for a long beat. The warmth in his eyes dimmed. Something darker slid into place.
“You want the truth?” he said, voice low.
She nodded, a single, cautious tilt of her head.
He stepped even closer. The air between them tightened.
“Then remember my name, Amara. My real name.”
A pause.
“I am Lorenzo Valeri.”
Her pulse stilled.
“What do you mean?” she breathed.
His voice cut like a blade. “I’m the last bloodline of the Valeri. Your father and Basille’s father butchered my clan in Palonva.”
The silence shattered inside her. Her breath came shallow, panic beginning to rise.
Suffocating.
“Is that what this is?” she whispered. “Revenge?”
He turned to face her fully now. There was no softness in his eyes.
Just fire.
He nodded once, slow and merciless. “Because you’re the one thing that can destroy them from the inside.”
She stepped back, hitting the edge of a chair. “You’re using me.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You’re Luca’s jewel. Moretti’s leverage. And now... you’re mine.”
Her lips parted. “You’re insane.”
He didn’t blink. “Maybe. But I’ve waited for this. And I won’t let it slip through my fingers.”
Tears stung her eyes. Rage burned in her throat. “Then why didn’t you just kill me? Why this game?”
His lips curled into a mock. “Because I could care about you, Amara. I wanted to. Maybe still do.”
Her stomach churned. “You think I’ll fall for you?”
“I don’t need you to,” he said smoothly. “But if you do, it’ll make everything easier. For you.”
Her defiance snapped back like a whip. “I’m not a pawn.”
“Yes,” he said, voice like stone. “You are. We’re all pieces in a war our fathers started. The only difference is, I know how to win.”
“And what if I never love you?” she spat.
He leaned in, his breath a whisper against her cheek. “Then I’ll break you until you do. Or I’ll marry you anyway. Either way, you’ll wear my name before this is over.”
Amara froze.
A deep, paralyzing fear rooted her to the floor. But beneath it, something else stirred.
"You arrogant!" she snarled, hand flying up on instinct.
But before she could slap him, Lorenzo caught her wrist mid-air.
Effortlessly.
His grip was firm but not painful. His thumb pressed against the inside of her wrist, right where her pulse thundered, exposing the betrayal of her body.
"I see," he murmured, tilting his head, eyes dark. "You refuse to surrender."
"Let me go," she hissed.
"Why? So you can hit me again?"
He stepped closer, too close. The heat of his chest brushed hers, the air between them a live wire.
"Or are you afraid of what happens if I don’t let go?"
"Afraid?" she spat. "Of you?"
"No." His voice dipped to something lethal, seductive. "Afraid of what I make you feel."
Her eyes widened.
"I make you furious," he continued, inching nearer, his breath brushing her cheek. "I make you reckless. I make you burn, Amara."
"You disgust me."
"You should hate me," he whispered, voice raw. "I want you to hate me. But the truth is…"
He leaned in, his lips almost grazing hers.
"You’re going to crave me. And when you do, it’ll destroy you far more than I ever could."
Her eyes burned with unshed tears. Rage. Shame. Fury.
"You’re insane," she breathed.
"Maybe."
She slapped him.
This time, he let her.
The c***k echoed through the studio.
He adjusted his jaw, but when he faced her again, he was smiling.
Dark. Dangerous. Addicted.
“You think you’ll own me?” she whispered. “You won’t. I don’t belong to anyone.”
He smiled faintly.
“Then prove it.”
- Writer
