Bound to the Devil

Chapter 5: The Breaking Point

The silence in the SUV on the way back to the villa wasn't just cold—it was combustible. Luciano sat next to me, his body vibrating with a suppressed rage that made the very air in the car feel heavy. He didn’t look at me, but I could see the vein pulsing in his neck and the way his knuckles were white as he gripped the armrest.

The moment the car screeched to a halt in front of the mansion, he didn't wait for the guards. He shoved his door open, stepped out, and rounded the car in three predatory strides. He ripped my door open and hauled me out by the arm.

"Luciano, let go! You’re hurting me!" I cried, stumbling as he dragged me toward the grand entrance.

He didn't say a word. He ignored the bowing servants and the curious glances of his soldiers. He dragged me up the stairs, his grip like a shackle of heated iron. We reached my suite, and he slammed the doors shut behind us with a sound that echoed like a cannon blast.

"Who was he?" Luciano roared, spinning me around to face him. He backed me up until I hit the edge of the vanity, the perfume bottles rattling behind me.

"I told you! He was nobody!" I screamed back, my chest heaving. The adrenaline was flooding my system, making my heart race in a way that wasn't just about fear anymore.

"Nobody?" Luciano stepped into my space, pinning me against the marble vanity.

He was so close I could feel the heat radiating from his chest through the thin silk of my blazer. His scent—a mix of expensive cologne, salt air, and pure, raw man—invaded my lungs, making my head spin. He leaned in, his large frame casting a shadow over me that felt both suffocating and intoxicating. I could see the golden flecks in his dark eyes, swirling like a storm.

"Dante Moretti used his name like a weapon. He looked at you like he knew the taste of your mouth, Siena. If you think I will let another man’s ghost haunt my house, you are sorely mistaken."

"You are insane! You’re jealous of a memory!" I reached out to push him away, but my hands landed on his chest. Instead of pushing, my fingers instinctively curled into the expensive fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat was thundering under my palms, fast and wild, mirroring the frantic rhythm of my own.

"I am not jealous," he hissed, his face inches from mine. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide until the grey was almost gone. "I am possessive. There is a difference. What belongs to me stays mine—body, soul, and memory."

"I don't belong to you!" I defied him, tilting my chin up even as my breath hitched.

Luciano’s gaze dropped to my lips, and his expression shifted from pure rage to something much more dangerous. "Don't you?"

Before I could blink, his hand shot up, his fingers tangling in my hair and forcing my head back. I let out a soft gasp as he leaned in, his nose brushing against mine.

"Every time you look at me with that fire in your eyes, you belong to me," he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register that sent a shiver straight to my core. "Every time your heart stutters when I walk into a room, you belong to me. And right now..." His gaze dropped to my chest, where my breathing was shallow and rapid, the silk of my blazer straining against my skin. "Right now, your body is screaming for me to prove it."

"I hate you," I breathed, but my voice lacked any real conviction.

"Hate me, then," he murmured. He moved his other hand to the lapel of my blazer, his knuckles brushing against the swell of my breast, a touch so light yet so searing it felt like a brand. "But don't lie to me. Not when your skin is burning under my touch."

He leaned down, his lips trailing a path of fire along my jawline to the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. I shivered, my eyes fluttering shut. I wanted to fight him, I wanted to claw at him, but the way his stubble grazed my skin sent a wave of liquid heat straight to my lower stomach.

"Luciano..." I moaned, and it sounded like a plea.

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. "Is that a 'no', Siena? Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't want this, and I’ll walk out that door."

I looked at him—at the man who had stolen my freedom. My hatred and my desire had become so tangled I couldn't tell them apart. I didn't tell him to stop. Instead, I reached up and pulled him down to me.

Our lips met in a collision that was more of a war than a kiss. It was desperate, bruising, and filled with all the things we couldn't say. His tongue searched mine, demanding surrender, and I gave it, my hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single inch of air between us.

Luciano groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated hunger. He lifted me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He carried me the short distance to the bed and fell with me onto the silk sheets.

The weight of him was a delicious pressure. He began to strip off my blazer, his hands trembling slightly—the first sign of weakness I had ever seen from him. I helped him, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt until I could finally press my palms against his bare skin. He was all hard muscle and heat, his tattoos rippling as he moved over me like a dark god.

He moved his mouth to my throat, his teeth nipping at the skin, leaving marks that would surely be there tomorrow. Marks that said I was his.

"You are mine," he growled against my skin, his hand sliding down to the curve of my hip, pulling me tighter against him. I could feel his hardness pressing against me, a promise of what was to come. The friction of his trousers against my silk pants was almost too much. I arched my back, a desperate sound escaping my lips as his hand moved higher, his thumb brushing against the center of my desire through the fabric. I was drowning in the sensation, my mind going blank, leaving only the raw, physical need for him to fill the void he had created.

Just as his hand reached the waistband of my trousers, he stopped.

He pulled back, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a mixture of lust and something that looked almost like regret.

"No," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

"No?" I blinked, my body screaming at the sudden loss of contact, the cold air hitting my sensitized skin like a slap. "What do you mean, no?"

Luciano rolled off me and stood up, his back to me. His muscles were corded with tension. "I won't have you this way. Not when you're still thinking of him. Not when this is just a reaction to a fight."

"I'm not thinking of anyone else!" I shouted, sitting up and pulling my blazer around me, feeling a sudden, sharp sting of rejection that hurt worse than his anger.

He turned around, and the mask was back. The cold, impenetrable Capo had returned, though his eyes were still dark with unspent passion. "Fix your clothes, Siena. Dinner will be served at seven. We have guests tonight—men from the commission. You will be the perfect wife. You will be the prize they all envy."

"Is that all this was? Another test?" I felt a tear prick my eye and brushed it away angrily.

Luciano looked at me for a long moment. He stepped toward the bed, leaning down until he was level with my face. He didn't touch me, but the air between us crackled with the force of his presence.

"That wasn't a test, Siena. That was a warning. Because when I finally do take you—and I will—there will be no room for anyone else in your head or your heart. You will be consumed by me."

He turned and walked out of the room, the click of the lock sounding like a final judgment.

I sank back onto the pillows, my heart still racing, my body still humming with the ghost of his touch. I hated him for stopping. I hated him for making me want him. But most of all, I hated the realization that he was right.

I was being consumed. And I wasn't sure I wanted to be saved.