ChapterTwenty-Five
Valentina
Once lunch is over and the plates cleared, Moretti stands and extends his hand, palm up, an invitation wrapped in command.
His eyes are dark, flared.Without him saying a single word, I know what he wants.
“Moretti…”
And really, is it any surprise?I’m still thinking about my brother, about what happened this morning.My mind is racing to understand everything, to put the missing pieces together.
But men like Moretti are different.
Live by the sword.Die by the sword.
He has needs, and since he tap dances on the edge of danger, there’s nothing like sex to truly feel alive and vital.
I don’t fool myself that this is anything more than that.
“Don’t tell me no, wife.”
I might… If he didn’t look at me that way.As if I’m his whole world and he’ll come undone if I refuse him.
“Valentina…” His voice is gruff.A little hoarse.A little desperate.
Damn him.
“Take my hand.”
Even though I’m tender from earlier and making love with this man is the last thing I should want to do, I slowly reach for him.
When we touch, the contact is electric.
His skin is warm and rough against mine.The bruise on his knuckles brushes my wrist, and I feel the faint scab there, a reminder of the price he’s willing to pay to keep me.
Instead of pulling away, I curl my fingers tighter, letting him feel how my hand trembles—not from dread, but from the sharp, undeniable need building inside me.
“Fuck.I can’t get enough of you, Princess.”
We leave the patio together, the sunlight sliding off my shoulders as we step inside.
The house is refreshingly cool and quiet, the faint scent of linseed oil drifting from the art room he prepared for me.That small gesture still sits heavy in my chest, proof that he listens, that he sees me beyond the Russo name he stole.
He doesn’t speak, but he strokes the back of my hand in slow, deliberate circles, and every pass sends sparks racing up my arm, straight to my breasts, straight to the ache between my thighs.
I glance at the nursery door as we pass, the buttery yellow walls visible through the cracked opening, the crib waiting.
My stomach flips—fear, anticipation, a treacherous thread of longing all tangled together.Could I already be pregnant?The thought should terrify me.But it doesn’t, making me wonder what’s wrong with me.
I shouldn’t want the child of the man who kidnapped me and forced me down the aisle.
His grip tightens fractionally, and he guides us toward the master suite without a word.The door closes behind us with a soft click that sounds final, intimate, sealing us away from the world.
The room is exactly as we left it—sheets still rumpled, the faint scent of us lingering in the air.
The room is still mostly dark from the way he closed the blinds, and he doesn’t turn on the light, weaving intimacy around us.
Dante releases my hand only to slide both palms up my arms, slow and possessive, his touch raising goose bumps that chase straight to my nipples.
