When I finally collapse, a sobbing, ruined heap, he doesn’t let go. He kisses my chest, my collarbone, my open mouth, low words pouring from him like he can’t keep them in.
"Brava, amore," he whispers, his lips wet and smiling. "So fucking brave."
I can’t move. Can barely breathe. But I’ve never felt more alive, more awake, more in control of my own goddamn body than I do right now, with his hands and mouth all over me.
After a minute, I blink back the tears and laugh, raw and a little wild. "Your turn," I tell him, daring myself, having felt his already hard erection all the way through.
He laughs, but it’s shaky, like he’s not sure he can even trust his own body anymore. "You’ll be the death of me, Sophia."
Good, I think, and for once the violence in that isn’t scary. It’s just true.
He kisses me then, slow and deep, and I taste myself on his tongue. It should be gross, but it isn’t. He’s so hard again that his cock throbs against my thigh, so I wrap my hand around it and guide him toward me, the head nudging against my entrance. He hesitates, breathing like he just ran a mile. "Are you sure?" he asks again. I am. He's not Roberto. He would never hurt me.
I grab his shoulders and pull him down so our foreheads touch. "Yes, Raffael. Please."
He pushes in slow, almost painfully slow, and I feel every inch, every bare, deliberate inch as he splits me open. There’s no rushing, no conquering. He lets me feel it, lets me want it. His body is over me, surrounding me, butthere is not a trace of panic rising up in me. Only longing. Tears gather in my eyes at the realization that I'm reclaiming yet another part of me.
I know it wasn't easy for Raf to let me take the lead every time we were together, and now I'm giving up some of the control I've worked so hard to regain, and I'm giving it tohim. The only man I know who would never abuse it.
He growls my name, teeth bared, hands braced on either side of my head. I wrap my legs around him, digging my heels into the small of his back, and pull him deeper. He fucks me just like that, hard and then gentle, holding eye contact the whole time, ready to release me if I give even a hint of discomfort. It’s overwhelming, the fullness, the warmth, the way my body molds to him. I dig my nails into his arms, desperate for somewhere to put the sensation, and he gasps, "Fuck, Soph…" then curses in Italian again, a string of filthy, perfect words.
He pounds into me, and it hurts in all the right ways. There’s no shame, only need—his, mine, both of us burning up in the middle of the bed. "Say it," he commands, voice hoarse. "Say you’re mine."
I do. I say it. "I’m yours. I’m all yours, Raffael. Only yours."
He stills, lost in the words, and then fucks into me harder. "Again," he says, and I scream it, sob it, chant it until it’s all I am. When he comes, he crushes me to him and moans my name, the moment so violent andso soft it’s like nothing in the world but us exists. He shakes, spills inside me, and kisses my tears until the shaking stops.
We lie there for a long time, a mess of sticky, tangled limbs and bodies. My body aches, but it’s a good ache, the kind I want to feel again and again.
He strokes my hair until I can breathe easily, until the sun is higher and the room is full of golden light. I burrow into his chest, and he wraps himself around me, holding me close like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever had.
Safe, I think, before I fall back to sleep. I am safe.
And this—this world, this life, this man—could never, ever be mistaken for a prison.
She steps outside beside me,and for a second—just one—I forget how to breathe. Sophia Giordano has always looked good. I’d be lying if I said I never noticed. Even when she was too young, too off-limits, too everything, she turned heads just by walking into a room. But now?
Now I’m seeing her in a whole new fucking light.
She’s dressed like she owns the world. Like she buried a man last night and walked out of the ashes in heels. Her dress is sleek and black; the fabric hugs every line of her body with effortless elegance. The cut is classic—square neckline, cinched waist, a soft flare to the hips. Refined. Sophisticated.
But that cutout?
It’s deliberate. Flirty.
And that damn slit up the back… yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing when she put that dress on. When I picked it, I knew she would look gorgeous in it, but I had no idea how radiant she would be. Over the last few weeks, her bruises have all healed, and she has even put some weight back on. Out in the sun, she's glowing with health and an inner strength only a person who has been through hell and back can project.
She walks like she knows I’m watching. Like every sway of her hips is meant for me. Her dark hair frames her face perfectly, making her look angelic and stern. A woman who knows how to command. Her dress is as black as her hair, like mourning. But the way she wears it, it’s not grief. It’s power. It’s a statement. Like she’s telling the world something died, but she didn’t.
She survived. And now she’s coming for blood.
And still…
Still, I want to grab my jacket and throw it over her shoulders.
Too much skin.
Too many eyes.
