Bound to the Devil

Chapter 3: Secrets in the Dark

The mansion was too quiet. It was the kind of silence that felt alive, like a beast holding its breath before a strike.

I lay in the center of the massive canopy bed in the Rose Suite, staring up at the silk drapes that looked like liquid moonlight. My lips still burned from Luciano’s kiss at dinner—a phantom sensation that refused to fade. It hadn't been just a kiss; it had been a claim. A declaration of war. He had left me here, alone with my racing thoughts, but he hadn't locked the door to my wing.

It was a test. A calculated move to see if I was a bird that would stay in its cage or a fool who would go looking for trouble.

By 2:00 AM, the adrenaline finally won over my exhaustion. My skin felt too tight for my body. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his stormy grey gaze devouring me, stripping me bare. I couldn't stay here, waiting for him to decide when to claim his "property." I needed to know who this man really was. I needed leverage.

Slowly, I slid out from under the cold silk sheets. My bare feet hit the polished marble floor, sending a shiver of awareness up my spine. I didn't reach for the light. I grabbed a dark silk robe, tying it loosely over my lace nightgown. My n*****s were hard against the fabric, a reaction to the chill—and the terrifying thrill of what I was doing.

I crept into the hallway. The amber glow of the wall sconces cast long, flickering shadows that looked like grasping hands. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I bypassed the grand staircase and headed toward the North Wing—Luciano’s territory. The air grew colder here, smelling of him: sandalwood, expensive tobacco, and a faint, metallic tang. Gun oil. The scent of a man who lived and breathed violence.

At the end of the hall stood the library doors. They were heavy, carved walnut. I pushed them open, and the scent of old leather and power enveloped me. The room felt like a cathedral of secrets.

I moved toward his massive mahogany desk, my heart thundering so hard I was sure he could hear it from wherever he was. I needed to find something. A weakness. A crack in his armor. On the desk sat a small, silver-framed photograph, turned face down. I hesitated—curiosity in this world usually ended in blood—but I flipped it over.

It was a boy. Luciano. He looked maybe ten years old, standing next to a man who looked like a crueler, harder version of himself. The boy wasn't smiling. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied. Behind them, a heavy leather belt lay on a table. My stomach twisted. The "Devil" hadn't been born; he had been forged in pain.

"Looking for a way to break me, Siena?"

The voice came from the shadows by the window, low and vibrating like a cello string. It sent a jolt of pure terror straight to my core. I screamed, the frame slipping from my fingers and clattering onto the mahogany desk.

Luciano stepped into the silver moonlight. He was shirtless. His chest was a landscape of hard, corded muscle and jagged scars—souvenirs of a violent life. His black trousers hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp, tempting lines of his V-taper. His hair was tousled, and he held a glass of amber whiskey in one hand. He looked raw. Lethal. Devastatingly beautiful.

"I... I couldn't sleep," I stammered, backing away. My legs felt weak, and my back hit the cold edge of the grand piano in the corner.

He didn't stop until he was inches away. He didn't just stand there; he invaded my air. He placed his hands on the piano on either side of my hips, trapping me. The heat radiating from his bare skin was an invitation and a threat.

"So you decided to hunt for ghosts instead?" He murmured, his eyes tracking the frantic pulse in my neck. He didn't look at the photo. He only looked at me. "You found the picture. You think a few bruises from a dead man make me human? You think you can pity the Devil?"

"I don't pity you," I whispered, though my voice betrayed me. "I think you’re haunted."

Luciano let out a dry, dark chuckle. He leaned in closer, his nose grazing my temple. "I’m not haunted, Siena. I’m the thing that does the haunting."

His hand moved from the piano to my jaw. His palm was calloused, his touch electric. He tilted my head back, forcing me to look into those stormy eyes. His thumb pressed firmly into my lower lip, dragging it down just enough to reveal the pink slickness of my inner mouth. The dominance in his posture made me feel small, fragile—and achingly aroused.

"You shouldn't be here," he hissed, his gaze dropping to my lips with an obsessive hunger. "You’re wearing nothing but silk and defiance, and you’re standing in the dark with a man who has forgotten how to be kind."

"Then show me," I challenged, my pride refusing to let me back down. "Show me how cruel you are."

His eyes flashed with something primitive. In one smooth move, he grabbed my wrists and pinned them to the piano keys. A loud, discordant note rang through the library, the vibration traveling up my spine. He pressed his body flush against mine—hard, hot, and demanding. I could feel every muscle of his chest against my breasts, the ridge of his desire pressing into my stomach through the thin silk of my robe.

"You think this is a game, piccola uccella?" He whispered against my ear. His breath was hot, sending shivers down my spine. His grip on my wrists was iron-hard, an absolute claim on my ability to move. "You have no idea what it means to be in the hands of a Costa. You are not a guest. You are mine to command."

I hated him. I hated the Costas. But my body was a traitor. It wanted the heat. It wanted the fire.

"I could take you right here," Luciano murmured, his lips grazing my jawline, moving toward my mouth. He stopped just inches away. He didn't kiss me. He just let the tension stretch until it was a physical ache. "I could make you forget your own name on these keys. I could make you beg me to touch you, to take the choice away from you."

His gaze dropped to the necklace, the heavy ruby collar. "You wear my mark, but you have no idea what it means to truly belong to me. You are here because I allow it. You are safe because I allow it. The rules of this house are the only thing standing between you and the Devil."

He inhaled the scent of my hair, his grip on my wrists intensifying for a heartbeat, an intimate reminder of his strength. The tension was a physical cord, stretched to the point of snapping. Part of me—the dark, forbidden part—wanted him to take the choice away. Wanted him to finish what he started.

But then, his jaw tightened. He let out a ragged breath and abruptly released my wrists. He stepped back, the cold air rushing between us like a physical blow.

"Go," he commanded, his voice thick. He turned his back to me, gripping the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. "Go back to your room, Siena. Before I decide that the truce is over."

I didn't wait for a second warning. I fled. I ran through the dark hallways, my robe billowing behind me, my skin feeling like it was on fire. I didn't stop until I reached the Rose Suite and locked the door, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

I fell into the massive bed, my mind a blur of his scars, the photo of the bruised boy, and the terrifying way I had felt in his iron grip.

Tomorrow, we would go to the docks. Tomorrow, I would have to stand by his side as his wife. But as I finally drifted into a feverish sleep, I knew the truth.

The Devil didn't just want my name. He wanted my soul. He wanted my obedience. And for the first time, I wasn't sure I could keep them from him.