I reach for her shoulder, trying to ground her, but she flinches so hard she nearly falls off the bed. Every muscle goes rigid at my touch, her body preparing for violence she expects but I'm not delivering. Yet. The woman before me has been conditioned to fear men's hands in the dark.
"Frances, you're safe." The words feel strange in my mouth. I don't offer safety. I offer ownership, control, carefully managed danger. But she's hyperventilating now, each breath shorter than the last, and my usual tactics won't work here.
She presses herself harder against the headboard when I shift closer, like she could disappear into the wood. "Please," she whispers, though I don't think she even knows what she's begging for.
This is trauma, real and raw, not the practiced fear she shows during daylight. Whatever happened to her, whoever this Tommy is, the damage runs bone-deep. She's not my composedbride right now. She's something broken and sharp-edged, ready to cut anyone who gets too close.
Her breathing gets worse, shallow gasps that will have her passing out if she doesn't calm down. But every movement makes her flinch harder, trapped between the wall and the monster she thinks I am.
"Calma," I say in Italian, then switch back to English. "Breathe, Frances."
She needs an anchor. Not comfort, I don't do comfort, but something solid to break the panic spiral. I calculate the risk of more scratches against the possibility of her hyperventilating into unconsciousness, then pull her against my chest despite her struggles.
"Tranquilla," I murmur, the Italian coming from some buried memory of my mother's voice during thunderstorms. "Listen to my heartbeat."
At first, she fights harder, panic making her wild. Her fists beat weakly against my shoulders, but I hold firm, one hand cradling the back of her head. "Just listen."
This is weakness, holding her, soothing her, letting her mark my face with her terror. Nico would put a bullet in someone this damaged, call it mercy. But her fingers suddenly stop pushing and grip my shirt instead, like I'm salvation instead of damnation, and I can't bring myself to push her away. When did I become someone's safe harbor? When did I start wanting to be?
"That's it, cara." The endearment slips out as her breathing starts to match mine. "I've got you."
Something cracks in my chest, probably a rib from her thrashing. At least, that's what I tell myself as her body gradually stops shaking, as she unconsciously curls closer to my warmth.
Mine. The word pulses through me with each of her breaths. Not just legally, not just physically, but in this broken, raw waythat makes me want to find everyone who ever hurt her and feed them their own teeth. Starting with this Tommy who makes her scream.
She falls asleep like that, curled against my chest with complete trust her waking self would never permit. The weight of her feels strange and necessary. Like my body was waiting for this specific weight to settle something restless inside me.
My cock hardens at her complete surrender, even unconscious. I'm sick enough to want her more when she's defenseless, trusting me with her demons while her body molds against mine. This isn't protection. It's possession wearing a gentler mask. But if that's what she needs to survive in my world, I'll wear any mask necessary.
I should return to my study, review tomorrow's shipment schedules. Instead, I watch her breathe, counting each inhale like rosary beads. The vintage watch on my nightstand, bought for her wrist, seems vulgar now. She needs more than pretty chains. Though I'll still put it on her, mark her in every way possible.
Her fingers clutch my shirt even in sleep, holding on like I might disappear. The gesture affects me in ways it shouldn't. This obsession is slipping from my control. She was supposed to be simple: a beautiful acquisition, a merger made flesh. Wed her, bed her, then move on to the next willing body. Instead, she's becoming something else, working her way under my skin with every tremor, every tear, every unconscious gesture of trust.
Dawn creeps through the windows, painting everything in pale gold. In the mirror across from the bed, I catch my reflection. Three parallel scratch marks down my left cheek, already dried over.
They'll scar if I don't treat them. But looking at the marks, evidence of her hidden claws, I find I don't want them to fade.Let them scar. Let them remind me that my delicate wife has survived things that would break most people.
In daylight, my family will see them and draw their own conclusions. Let them. They don't need to know that my wife's nightmares have claws, or that I held her through them like her personal guardian devil.
The scratch marks throb with each heartbeat, a steady rhythm of pain that grounds me in the present. In an hour or two, she'll wake and see what she's done to my face. She'll go pale, those brown eyes widening with horror at the damage her unconscious self inflicted. She'll apologize, voice trembling, try to tend the wounds with shaking hands.
I'll let her.
I'll sit perfectly still while she dabs at the blood with expensive cotton and antiseptic that will sting like hellfire. I'll watch her bite that full lower lip as she concentrates, leaning close enough that I can smell her skin: soap and fear and that underlying scent that's purely her. Close enough that her breath will ghost across my jaw.
She'll whisper "I'm sorry" again and again, like apologies could ever undo violence. Like I want them undone.
And when she's finished, when she thinks she's made amends, I'll catch her wrist before she can pull away. I'll hold her there, let her feel how her pulse races under my thumb. Let her see how her proximity makes my cock hard, how her gentle touches are more torture than the scratches ever were.
"You marked me," I'll tell her, voice low enough to make her shiver. "Drew blood while you slept."
She'll try to apologize again, but I'll press my thumb to her lips, silencing her.
"Now you're going to make it up to me." I'll pull her onto my lap, let her feel exactly how hard she makes me. "And Frances?You're going to use that sweet mouth for something better than saying sorry."
The thought of her on her knees, those lips wrapped around my cock while the morning sun highlights the scratches she left… fuck. My hand slides down to adjust myself, already imagining how she'll look taking me deep, tears streaming down her face from the effort, my hand twisted in her hair.
She shifts in her sleep, unconsciously pressing closer, and murmurs something that sounds almost like my name. Not Rosetti. Not husband. Just "Alessandro," breathed against my chest like a confession. Probably just a hissed breath.
