Chapter 3: Marked
508 Words
Elena didn’t go home that night.
Not because he asked her to stay. He didn’t.
But the moment she stepped out of that private room, her world felt... quieter. Duller. As if the air outside hadn’t touched her the way he did.
She didn’t even know his name.
Not officially.
But people whispered it around the club like a prayer—and a warning.
Dominic Moretti.
Mafia royalty. Cold-blooded, calculated, and rich enough to buy the city twice over. He didn’t need to touch you to make you feel owned. A glance was enough.
And he had touched her.
Barely.
Yet the memory of his fingers ghosting across her collarbone still burned, like he’d lit a fuse under her skin.
---
Three days passed.
She told herself she was done. She’d find her sister, get out, move on. But every night, her fingers hovered over the phone, heart pounding as if waiting for a call she never gave him the number for.
Then, it came.
A car. Black. No plates. Parked outside her apartment.
And a man in a sharp suit at her door.
“He’s waiting.”
That was all.
---
The mansion wasn’t what she expected.
No guards at the gate, no growling dogs. Just quiet. Like power didn’t need to announce itself when it owned everything.
She was led through a hall of marble and shadow until a door opened to a private study. Books lined the walls. A fireplace glowed low. He stood at the window, back to her again.
But she felt him.
Every inch.
“Elena,” he said, turning slowly. “You came back.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
He stepped forward. “But you did.”
She tried to stay composed, but her voice betrayed her. “What do you want from me?”
He didn’t answer with words.
He stepped into her space, crowding her with heat. His hand slid to her waist—possessive now, not tentative. She gasped softly, but didn’t move away.
“You’ve been in my head,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Three nights. I haven’t touched anyone. Haven’t wanted to.”
Her knees weakened. His grip tightened slightly, holding her up.
“You don't know me,” she whispered.
“I will.”
And then he kissed her.
Hard.
Claiming.
Not gentle. Not asking.
Her mind blanked—one hand on his chest to push him away, the other gripping his shirt to pull him closer.
His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting, teasing, owning. Her breath caught as he backed her into the nearest wall, his hands exploring the curve of her waist, the line of her thigh. He didn’t rush. He studied her.
Her pulse was wild.
When he finally pulled back, she was flushed, breathless, lips parted.
He looked down at her like he was already imagining every inch of her beneath him.
“You’re mine now, Elena,” he said, voice rough with restraint. “You just don’t know it yet.”
- Writer
