Chapter 2 – The Rules of Submission
1476 Words
Alessia’s body ached in places she didn’t know could feel pain.
Or pleasure.
Or both.
She sat on the edge of the massive velvet chaise in the corner of Dante Moretti’s bedroom. The silk robe they’d given her barely covered the bruises blooming along her hips—the places his hands had gripped her, where his mouth had claimed her, where his c**k had carved ownership into her flesh like a brand.
Morning light streamed through the tall windows, soft and golden, making everything in the room look too gentle, too surreal for what had happened only hours ago.
Her thighs were still sticky. Her lips swollen. Her pride... shattered.
And yet, she hadn’t cried.
Not once.
She wouldn’t give him that.
The door opened behind her, and her spine stiffened instinctively. But she didn’t turn.
She didn’t have to. She felt him.
That same overwhelming, possessive energy filled the space like smoke—slow, suffocating, and impossible to ignore.
Dante.
The man who owned her body now. The man who broke her in half last night and whispered promises of more while still inside her.
“You didn’t touch the food,” he said behind her, voice smooth but edged like a knife in silk.
She stared at the untouched tray on the coffee table. Fruit, croissants, a delicate glass of orange juice. As if she were some pampered princess and not a girl bought like property.
Alessia’s voice came out raw, almost foreign. “I’m not hungry.”
Dante walked slowly, every step deliberate, confident. The air shifted as he approached, until she could feel his shadow falling over her.
“I didn’t ask if you were,” he said, and before she could respond, his fingers were tangled in her hair, forcing her head back.
She met his gaze upside down. Dark eyes. Sharp cheekbones. A jaw that could slice steel.
“You belong to me now,” he said. “And I don’t let what’s mine starve.”
He let go just as suddenly, and she gasped for air, swallowing her rage. His presence was like a drug she hated needing. Every time he touched her, she wanted to scream. Every time he looked at her like she was both prey and prize, her skin flushed in betrayal.
“You act like you care,” she snapped.
Dante laughed. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just amused.
“I don’t care,” he said. “I own. There’s a difference.”
He stepped closer, and her heart rate spiked without permission. Her eyes tracked the way his black shirt clung to the ridges of his chest, the way his slacks hinted at the thick hardness he used to bend her to his will. She hated herself for noticing.
He knelt in front of her—one knee on the floor, like he was about to propose.
Instead, he spread her legs.
Her breath caught.
She didn’t move. Didn’t protest. Not because she wanted to obey… but because she was curious what he would do if she didn’t fight.
Dante looked up at her, lips close to her bare inner thigh where the robe had parted.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.
“I was sold.”
He smiled, slow and mocking. “That’s the how. I’m asking why.”
She stared at him, eyes narrowed. “Because my father owed you.”
He shook his head.
“No, Alessia. You’re here because I chose you.”
Her body froze.
Dante’s fingers trailed up her thigh, inching toward the soft folds still tender from the night before.
“Out of all the things I could’ve taken from your father—money, land, his miserable life—I chose you.”
He spread her gently with his thumbs, watching her shiver, her breath hitch. “Do you want to know why?”
She bit her lip. “No.”
He chuckled darkly. “Because you fight.”
Then, without warning, his tongue slid between her folds.
Alessia cried out, hands clutching the velvet of the chaise. His tongue was slow. Expert. He licked her like a man tasting the finest wine—deep, savoring, relentless.
“f**k—Dante—” she gasped, trying to wriggle away.
He gripped her thighs tighter, holding her still.
She tried again.
He bit her c**t—just lightly.
She froze.
“Rule number one,” he said against her heat. “You don’t run from my mouth. Ever.”
Then he sucked her c**t between his lips, tongue flicking, and everything blurred.
She came embarrassingly fast, thighs trembling, back arching. Her moans echoed off the high walls, helpless and raw.
When he pulled back, his chin was wet, and he looked utterly unfazed. Powerful. In control.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and rose to his feet, towering over her.
“You’re going to learn my rules, cara mia,” he said. “One by one. And by the time I’m done, you won’t remember who you were before I touched you.”
She wanted to slap him.
She wanted to kiss him.
She hated how true his words felt.
---
Later that afternoon, he took her to the main house.
A black SUV waited outside the estate. Two guards opened the back door and motioned for her to enter. Dante slid in beside her, legs wide, arm thrown lazily across the back of the seat. He smelled like dark spice and clean soap and sin.
Alessia kept her hands in her lap, eyes on the road.
“Why are we going into the city?” she asked after ten minutes of silence.
Dante turned his head slightly, looking at her with those obsidian eyes. “Because I want you dressed like you belong to me.”
“I don’t.”
He didn’t reply.
But his hand landed on her thigh and squeezed—firm, punishing. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to remind her he could.
They arrived at a boutique that screamed wealth—glass walls, velvet ropes, mannequins in gowns that probably cost more than her apartment back in Rome.
The moment they stepped inside, the staff scattered like birds, rushing to greet him.
“Mr. Moretti, welcome,” a tall woman in heels said, bowing slightly. “What can we help you with?”
Dante looked at Alessia. “Dress her. No black. Nothing modest. She’s not here to hide.”
The woman’s gaze flicked to Alessia with a glint of envy. Or pity. Or both.
Alessia was led to a backroom where racks of dresses waited—silks, satins, barely-there lingerie disguised as couture. As she undressed, she felt eyes on her.
Turning, she found Dante standing in the doorway, watching.
“You could wait outside,” she said through clenched teeth.
“I could,” he said. “But I won’t.”
She slipped into a deep red number that clung to her hips and exposed more cleavage than it covered. The slit ran dangerously high up her thigh. She turned toward the mirror.
Before she could speak, Dante was behind her.
He gripped her hips from behind and whispered in her ear, “Rule number two—you only wear what I approve. And when we’re home… you wear nothing.”
She glared at his reflection.
“You like seeing me naked because it reminds you you’ve won.”
He kissed her neck—softly. Almost tender. It startled her more than his cruelty.
“I haven’t won yet,” he said.
That night, back at the estate, Alessia stood naked in his bedroom as instructed.
The robe he’d given her was folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Her arms crossed over her chest, but it didn’t help.
He sat on the edge of the bed, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled.
“You have a beautiful body,” he said, eyes scanning every inch. “But it’s not yours anymore.”
She inhaled sharply.
“It’s mine. Every curve. Every inch. Every sound you make when I touch you.”
He stood.
And then—slowly, without warning—he knelt.
Alessia's eyes widened.
“What are you—”
“Rule number three,” he said, voice low. “You kneel when I tell you to. But sometimes... I kneel to remind you that I choose to worship what I own.”
Then he pressed a kiss to her stomach.
And another.
Then lower.
And when he finally knelt between her legs, mouth claiming her again, she stopped pretending she wasn’t burning for him.
Not because she loved him.
Not because she trusted him.
But because somewhere deep inside, she’d begun to crave the power he took from her.
And what terrified her most…
Was how much she wanted to give it.
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