Later, I sink into the couch, my legs tucked beneath me, watching Enzo drop into the seat beside me. It’s almost comical—this man who commands armies of criminals sprawled across leather like he belongs in some domestic daydream. The sight makes me uneasy. Not because I don’t want it, but because I do. And I don’t know how to reconcile that hunger with the world we actually live in.
I break the silence first. “So, the meeting. Did it go the way you wanted?”
Enzo leans back, one arm stretched along the couch, but his eyes stay hard, steady. “Productive enough. Most of it was about you. About what your abduction means. They expect Lachlan to try something—loud, messy. And Falco won’t sit still forever. Men like that don’t take humiliation quietly.”
My stomach knots, but I don’t look away.
Enzo goes on, “So we reinforce. Lock down movement, slow the flow until I’m satisfied. More eyes on the docks. More men on rotation here. No gaps, no weak points. Until they make their move, we hold the line.”
“And me?” I ask, softer than I mean to.
His gaze cuts into me, sharp and possessive. “You’re protected. Always. Every second. I’d gut anyone who tried to get near you again. They think taking you once was leverage. What they don’t realize is it’s the last mistake they’ll ever make.”
The words should terrify me. Instead, they wrap around me with the strangest warmth, a shield forged in his words.
But when my arm brushes against his, my pulse stutters. It’s ridiculous how awkward it feels to share a couch with him. I’ve had his hands everywhere, his body pressed into mine in ways that still make me ache, but sitting shoulder to shoulder, my thigh brushing his, feels far more intimate than all of it combined.
His gaze dips briefly to where our knees touch, then back up to my face. Heat lingers in that look, restrained but coiled, waiting. My breath hitches, the room shrinking around us.
“Why does this feel so strange?” I ask, more to myself than him.
Enzo tilts his head, studying me with that maddening patience. “Because couches are for peace,” he says simply. “And peace is new for us.”
The words slide under my skin, sharp and soft all at once. My chest tightens, the silence between us shifting from uneasy to charged. I can already feel it pulling me closer, demanding something more than sitting side by side.
His words still linger in the air—peace is new for us—when I realize how close he’s gotten. His hand, resting on the back of the couch, is now brushing against my shoulder, warm and steady. My breath hitches, caught between wanting to lean in and waiting for him to close the space.
But Enzo never rushes. He shifts an empire one decision at atime, and somehow that patience becomes its own kind of power. Now, sitting this close, I feel it coil around me. His gaze flicks to my mouth and the restraint nearly undoes me.
“Enzo…” The whisper is out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t answer with words. His fingers slide down, cupping the back of my neck, urging me forward until our mouths finally meet. The kiss is slow, laced with a tenderness that steals my breath without taking it all at once. His lips claim mine with the quiet authority of a man who knows he’ll always get what he wants, and my body betrays me instantly, pressing closer.
The taste of him is consuming, and when his tongue sweeps against mine, heat floods my veins. His hand at my neck tightens, not harsh but commanding, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. A sound escapes me, half-moan, half-sigh, and it earns me a growl from him that vibrates through my chest.
I shift instinctively, angling toward him, my leg brushing against his thigh. He doesn’t move away; instead, his free hand settles at my hip, pulling me closer until I’m nearly straddling him. The pressure of his body under mine, the way his mouth takes and gives in equal measure—it’s too much and not enough all at once.
When I break the kiss just long enough to breathe, his lips trail down my jaw, teeth grazing the edge of my throat. “You’ll crawl to me tonight, won’t you, Angel?” His voice is gravel and silk, each word sinking under my skin.
A shiver runs through me, my fingers fisting in his shirt as I whisper, “I’ll crawl. I’ll beg. Whatever you want.”
He smirks against my skin. “Good. Because I don’t just want you crawling, Angel. I want you to smile when you do it, knowing exactly who you belong to.”
And then his mouth is on mine again, hungrier now.
“Enough of this couch,” he says, voice threaded with heat. “Come upstairs with me.”
I don’t argue. Instead, I let him take my hand, the simple contact sparking down my spine as he guides me toward the stairs.By the time we cross the threshold to our room, my chest is tight with anticipation, every nerve ending already tuned to him.
Just inside the space, Enzo releases my hand and sits at the edge of the bed, broad shoulders back, eyes locked on me like a man who’s waited far too long to indulge. He gestures with one hand, voice steady, commanding.
“Undress.”
He leans back on the edge of the bed, his posture all command and composure, dark eyes tracking every move I make.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the zipper of my dress, but I don’t hesitate. Piece by piece, I strip down beneath the weight of his stare. The fabric slides off my shoulders, pools at my feet, then my bra unclasped, panties discarded. His gaze devours me—hungry, reverent, ruthless in the way it strips away any pretense I might still cling to.
I should feel bare, vulnerable, exposed. Instead, every inch of my skin feels claimed.
