His World Of Chaos

Chapter Five

Isabella’s POV

His intense touch

The air in the room felt stale as I opened my eyes.

So still it felt like it was pressing on my skin, thick with the smell of those damn roses outside the window and underneath all that something sharp and metallic. Like a warning, or maybe just Damiano’s signature cologne telling me I might die here. I was perched on the edge of that ridiculous velvet chair, arms crossed, shooting daggers at the double doors as if I could glare him right out of existence.

Damiano’s always been the type who doesn’t even notice a locked door, let alone a pissed-off glare.

No warning, the doors swing open. Of course. He fills the doorway, all shadow and menace squeezed into an expensive suit, eyes even darker than the fabric, if that’s possible. He’s like a walking threat, except he doesn’t even bother with the courtesy of a knock.

Never has.

His gaze cuts over me, sharp enough that I nearly flinch, lingering on the fact that I’m not getting up.

“Isabella.” His voice? Pure silk stretched to the breaking point. It’s the kind of tone that makes you want to throw something or run. “Still sulking?”

I stand up, slow on purpose, every move a giant middle finger. “Sulking? That’s what you call it when someone yanks you out of your life, locks you up like a pet, and…”

“And keeps you alive when half the city wants you dead for less?” he interrupts, stepping inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. That sound is worse than a slam, somehow. “Yeah. Sounds like sulking.”

The way he twists everything, makes it sound so reasonable, like I’m just being dramatic.

He strides closer. There’s that hint of smoke clinging to his gunpowder, maybe, or just trouble. My heart starts doing its own thing, which is infuriating, so I clamp my fists together and pretend I’m cool.

“I came to check on you,” he says, all cold and casual, but something is flickering in his eyes. Concern? Possessiveness? Hell if I know, but it makes me want to scream.

So I do the next best thing.

He’s close enough now that I can see this tiny scar on his jaw, probably from some past mafia situation, and I spit right in his face.

Direct hit.

Everything stops. The air, my heart, time itself.

He goes ice-cold, then something else, something that says I just made a huge mistake. He wipes his cheek, real slow, eyes locked on mine. Wolfish. Like he’s savoring the moment before he pounces.

“You just signed your own punishment,” he says, way too soft.

My heart did a flip. I’m scared, very scared, but also, underneath that, something hot and reckless. Like I’m daring him.

“Good,” I shoot back, voice all shaky, which is just great. “Do your worst.”

He doesn’t even blink. One second, he’s a few feet away, next second, his hand is clamped around my wrist, burning-hot and unbreakable. I get yanked up against him. He's basically a brick wall and unmovable. My gasp is embarrassingly loud. His other hand grabs my jaw, forcing my head up.

“You think you want my worst?” he hisses. “You don’t have a clue, Isabella.”

I dig my nails into his chest, not that it does anything. “Then prove it.”

And for a second, I swear the whole world tips sideways. His pupils blow wide, his breath is all over my mouth, and then he’s kissing me or, no, not kissing. Devouring. Conquering. It’s not sweet, it’s not gentle, it’s like he’s trying to burn the fight right out of me.

I tried fighting back. I pushed him, tried breaking free, but it seemed impossible. He cages me against the wall, all muscle and rage, tongue invading, rough and demanding, and god help me my body betrays me. I felt sick to my stomach and wanted to scream.

When he finally breaks free from me, I felt angry and pissed. But besides all that, I wanted more and I hate myself for that.

“You’ll learn,” he breathes, all thunder and smoke. “Spit on me again and you’ll learn the real price.”

I glare at him, chin up, but my breath’s a mess. “Maybe I want to forget. Maybe I want you to break me, Damiano. At least then I won’t feel this… this ”

I bite the words off, mortified.

His grin could slice through bone. “This pull? That fire you pretend isn’t there?”

“I hate you.”

He shoves me harder against the wall, his thigh sliding between mine. My breath stutters. “Good. Hate’s honest. Hate, I can use.”

His hand moved from my jaw to my throat.

And then well. He made good on that promise.

His hands moved over my body like he was in control of the whole situation. Every touch rough, like he needed me to remember who the boss was. I tried to push him off me, but those protests just melted into harsh and uncontrolled breaths, my nails digging into his skin, even as he pinned me tighter, pushed me further.

Too much. Not enough. Both at once, somehow.

It all just blurred together pain, want, anger, and something else I didn’t want to name. His mouth crushed mine, bruising. Teeth scraped my neck. I clawed him back, found myself just as desperate, meeting his violence with my own.

When he finally broke away, we were both shaking, wrecked. His forehead leaned into mine, sweat clinging to his brow, his damn eyes burning right through me.

“You’ll never run from me,” he growled, voice all gravel and fire. “Not because I keep you locked up. Not because this city’s mine. But because some part of you,” his thumb brushed my lower lip, still throbbing from his kisses, “already belongs to me.”

I could feel tears stinging, hot and humiliating. Rage twisted with something sharp and honest inside me, like barbed wire under my skin. “I’ll never be yours.”

His jaw locked. For a second, I caught something flash through his eyes. Broken, not that he would ever admit it.

He moved away, letting me go. My knees shook, my back leaning to the wall, my whole body shaking with what he’d done to me.

But then his voice hardened again. “Rest. Tomorrow, you’ll learn what happens to women who embarrass me in front of my men. I don’t tolerate disrespect from them or from you.”

He stalked toward the door. My chest was a drum, pounding out of control.

He stopped right before leaving, hand tight on the frame, shoulders all tense. Didn’t look at me. “You shouldn’t have spat at me, Isabella.” His voice went all soft and mean. “Now you’ll never stop tasting me.”

The door slammed hard and I flinched.

I moved to the door, heart pounding.

Hate.

Hunger.

Shame.

Need.

My fingers went to my lips still swollen. I could still taste.

And I wanted more