Chapter Three
1054 Words
The dining room was far too elegant for a prison.
A long mahogany table stretched across the space, set with fine china and silverware that gleamed under the dim chandelier light. A rich aroma of roasted lamb and wine filled the air, yet Elena’s stomach remained twisted in knots.
Luca sat at the head of the table, effortless in his dominance. He had changed into a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing the inked history written into his skin. He barely glanced at her as she was ushered to the seat beside him.
Elena didn’t sit.
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Luca murmured, swirling the glass of red wine in his hand, eyes unreadable.
“I don’t dine with my captors.”
A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Then you’ll starve.”
Her stomach betrayed her, twisting at the sight of the meal before her. She hadn’t eaten since before the gala, and the hunger gnawed at her insides. But she refused to touch the food.
Luca took a sip of his wine, watching her with an amusement that sent heat crawling up her spine.
“Stubborn,” he mused. “I respect that. But hunger is a powerful thing. Sooner or later, it will win.”
She squared her shoulders. “I’d rather die on my terms than kneel on yours.”
His smirk faltered, just slightly. “We’ll see.”
The silence stretched, tension thick in the air. Then, Luca leaned forward, voice quieter now. “Your father hasn’t called.”
Elena froze.
Luca studied her reaction carefully. “He hasn’t asked for you back. No negotiations, no demands.” He tilted his head. “It makes me wonder—how valuable are you to him?”
She swallowed, a sharp pain slicing through her chest. He was lying. He had to be.
“My father wouldn’t abandon me.”
Luca set his wine glass down with a soft clink. “Are you sure?”
Elena’s nails dug into her palms beneath the table.
He was trying to break her.
She wouldn’t let him.
Without a word, she grabbed the nearest glass of wine and threw it at him.
The deep red liquid splashed across his shirt, dripping down his chest in slow, dark stains like blood.
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Luca exhaled slowly, glancing down at the mess with an expression that was unreadable.
Then, a slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.
“You’ll regret that.”
Before she could react, he was up, moving toward her with the precision of a predator.
The door slammed behind them.
Elena backed away, her breath unsteady, but Luca didn’t move. He stood near the entrance, hands in his pockets, his shirt still damp from the wine.
She expected him to lash out. To retaliate.
Instead, he just watched her.
“You think rebellion makes you strong,” he said finally, voice low, measured.
She lifted her chin. “It makes me human.”
A chuckle. Not amused, but something darker. “Human?” He stepped closer. “What part of this world ever gave you the luxury of being human?”
She swallowed but didn’t back down.
Luca studied her for a long moment before shaking his head. “You’re fighting the wrong battle, Elena.”
She clenched her fists. “What battle am I supposed to fight? The one where I beg for mercy? That’s never going to happen.”
He took another step forward. “No,” he murmured. “The battle where you realize you don’t have to beg. You just have to survive.”
Something flickered in his expression. Something she couldn’t read, couldn’t trust.
Then, he reached out.
Elena stiffened, expecting pain, but all he did was tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
It was worse than if he had struck her.
His touch was calm, careful, but it held a silent promise—a warning, a claim.
She refused to move.
His thumb brushed against her jaw for the briefest moment before he pulled away.
“I don’t need to hurt you,” he said softly. “I just have to wait.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, locking the door behind him.
Elena let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, gripping the edge of the vanity.
She wouldn’t break.
But as she looked at herself in the mirror, the woman staring back at her seemed... different.
Night fell heavy and silent over the villa.
Elena sat on the edge of the bed, her heart pounding as she ran a delicate hairpin between her fingers.
She had been working at the lock for over an hour, her hands trembling from the effort, but finally—the latch clicked.
Her breath hitched.
She had to move fast.
The hallway was empty, the soft flicker of candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. She moved quickly, barefoot to avoid noise, her pulse hammering in her ears.
Down the hall. Past the guards’ quarters. Toward the scent of rain.
She could almost taste freedom.
Then—a hand closed around her wrist.
Her body seized in terror as a voice murmured behind her.
“And here I thought you were smarter than this.”
Elena turned sharply, staring into Luca’s storm-gray eyes.
Her stomach twisted.
He looked disappointed. Not angry, not surprised—just disappointed.
That made it worse.
She lashed out, but he was faster, catching her wrist and twisting her effortlessly against the cold stone wall.
“You don’t learn, do you?” he murmured, voice eerily calm.
She spat at him, fury thrumming beneath her skin.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, a low, dark laugh.
“That’s strike two, principessa.”
Elena’s breathing was ragged, her chest rising and falling as he stared at her, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.
Then, without warning, he scooped her up effortlessly, ignoring her kicks, carrying her back toward her room.
She struggled, thrashed, but it was like fighting against steel.
The door swung open, and then—she was dropped onto the bed.
The lock clicked shut.
Elena sat up, breathless, fists clenched.
She wasn’t just fighting Luca.
She was fighting herself.
- Writer
