"Home," Stefano said simply, his hand sliding beneath the jacket to splay possessively across my bare chest. The heat of his palm against my skin sent another wave of confused pleasure racing through my system like electricity through water. "Where you belong."
Home. Right. Because being kidnapped by mafia royalty is totally a homecoming scenario. Should I expect a welcome mat and fresh-baked cookies? Maybe a 'Congratulations on Your New Life as Owned Omega Property' banner?
"I don't belong anywhere with you three," I managed, my voice cracking despite my attempts to sound defiant. "You disappeared. For six fucking months. Not a word, not a visit, nothing. And now you just… what? Decide I'm yours again?"
"Oh, we never left," Marco interrupted, sliding closer until his knees pressed against mine, that familiar predatory smile returning despite the blood spatter decorating his collar like macabre confetti. "Those cameras in your bedroom, your bathroom, that reading nook in the garden—they showed us everything. Every night you called our names in your sleep. Every morning you touched yourself thinking about us."
The revelation hit me like a physical blow, my stomach dropping as realization crashed through me. They'd been watching. Everything. All this time.
They saw me sobbing their names. Heard me begging phantom alphas while I tried desperately to recreate what they'd done to me. Witnessed every pathetic attempt to satisfy cravings only they could fulfill.
"You sick, voyeuristic pieces of shit!" I snarled, trying to claw my way out of Stefano's lap. "That's illegal! That's—that's—fuck, there should be a whole new category of felony for that level of stalker behavior!"
And the most fucked-up part? My traitorous omega biology thinks it's the hottest thing. What does that say about me? That I like being watched? That I'm so psychologically damaged I'm getting wet over my own stalking.
"That's ownership," Stefano murmured against my ear, his voice a dark promise that made my body respond despite my horror.
His mouth crashed against mine without warning, cutting off my protest with bruising force that made my head spin. His tongue rammed past my lips, so thick and desperate I choked on the invasion. The taste flooded my senses—pine and winter and something darker that my body recognized instantly.
Oh God. This. This is what I've been trying to recreate for six months. The way his tongue claims every corner of my mouth like he's mapping territory. The precise pressure that makes my toes curl. The perfect balance of dominance and skill that none of my midnight fantasies could capture.
My nails clawed at his shirt, tearing expensive fabric as my body battled between pushing him away and pulling him closer. His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back to deepen the angle. The sharp pain sent electricity racing down my spine, igniting memories of that night in the tent—how he'd held me just like this while Marco praised me, how Matteo had watched with those intense amber eyes while I fell apart between them.
I've spent six months dreaming about this. Waking up aching and empty because my own fingers couldn't recreate the way Stefano kissed me that night—like I was something he'd been starving for, something he'd burn the world to possess.
When his teeth sank into my lower lip, copper burst across my tongue, and I sobbed into his mouth. The taste triggered another flood of memories—how he'd bitten me in the tent, marking me as they passed me between them. How I'd screamedtheir names as pleasure crashed through me in waves. How they'd owned every inch of me before disappearing like smoke.
His tongue thrust deeper, and I gagged slightly, the sensation sending shameful heat straight to my core. This was exactly how he'd kissed me that night—invading every part of me, leaving no corner unexplored. My body remembered what my mind had tried to forget, responding with muscle memory that had been imprinted beneath my skin.
When he finally released my mouth, I was gasping, lips swollen and tender, the copper taste of my own blood mingling with the lingering pine and winter essence of him. My body throbbed with need I couldn't suppress, months of phantom cravings finally answered by the real thing.
"Your body remembers," Stefano murmured, voice rough with satisfaction as his thumb traced the bite mark on my lower lip. "It knows who you belong to, even if you've been pretending otherwise."
"I don't belong to anyone," I gasped, though the breathless quality of my voice wasn't exactly selling my independence. I might as well have been wearing a sign that said LYING in neon letters.
"Fuck," Marco breathed, eyes fixated on my mouth like he was mentally calculating how soon he could claim it next. "Look at him. Already falling apart after one kiss. Six months without us, and he's ready to beg already."
I'm not ready to beg. I'm just… remembering. How it felt to be completely consumed by them. How nothing I've tried since has come close to the way they dismantled me piece by piece that night. The way they broke me down until I was sobbing "Daddy" while coming harder than I ever had in my life.
"You can't just—" I tried, but my voice sounded wrecked even to my own ears, nothing like the defiant tone I'd intended."Where the hell have you been? Six months of nothing and now you show up covered in blood, acting like you own me?"
Now you're back like avenging angels of death and sex, like nothing happened, like you didn't disappear without explanation, like you didn't leave me wondering if that night meant anything to you while it completely fucked up my entire existence.
Stefano's hand slid from my jaw to my throat, thumb pressing against my pulse with just enough pressure to remind me how easily he could stop it. "We've always been there," he said, eyes tracking every micro-expression that crossed my face. "Watching. Waiting. Making sure nothing threatened what's ours."
His mouth descended again, this time with calculated slowness that was somehow more devastating than the earlier brutality. His lips moved against mine with deliberate precision, coaxing rather than commanding. The gentleness was worse than force—it reminded me of how they'd bathed me after breaking me apart, how they'd held me with surprising tenderness after pushing me past my limits.
Just like when they'd reduced me to nothing but need and surrender before building me back up with gentle touches and soft praise. "Good boy," they'd called me, and God help me, I'd believed them.
His tongue traced the seam of my lips, asking permission this time rather than demanding entrance. The contrast to his earlier assault made something in my chest ache with confused longing. I opened for him without conscious thought, welcoming the invasion I'd spent months dreaming about.
He tasted exactly as I remembered—pine and winter and something darker that belonged uniquely to him. The perfect blend of flavors I'd tried to recall during countless frustrated nights alone. My body responded instantly, heat poolingbetween my thighs, my cock hardening against his thigh in shameful recognition.
I hate that they know what they do to me. Hate that after everything—the abandonment, the surveillance, the casual violence—my body still recognizes them as something it needs. Something it's been desperate for.
"I don't belong to you," I whispered against his mouth when he finally let me breathe. The words felt hollow even as I said them, undermined by the way my body trembled with need in his arms. "I'm not yours."
The SUV began to slow, tires crunching over what sounded like gravel rather than the rough forest road. I blinked through my arousal-addled haze, trying to focus on anything besides the throbbing need between my legs.
