His expression shifts. The concern vanishes, replaced by a cold, hard mask that is more terrifying than the one he wears in the basement. His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering at the hinge, and his grip on my wrists becomes like iron.
"Is that what this is?" he asks, his voice like the edge of a razor. "A trade? You’re using me as a distraction from your nightmares?"
"Y-Yes," I say, my voice trembling even as I hold his gaze.
"Fine. If you want a trade, little Gia, let's make it a fair one."
He doesn't wait anymore. He starts to move, and the "kindness" he was offering is buried under a mountain of spite. He’s dominant, his thrusts deep and powerful, his hands pinning my wrists above my head so hard I’ll have marks for a week. He’s the Butcher now, taking what he wants with a clinical, punishing intensity that demands I acknowledge every second of the "trade."
"You want rough?" he growls, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and angry. "You want to forget who you are? Then look at me, Gia. Look at me while I take every part of the girl you’ve been hiding. If it’s just a trade, then give me my money’s worth."
I look. I can't do anything else. I’m lost in the green of his eyes, in the heat of his body, in the sheer, overwhelming power of his resentment. He’s taking me apart, stroke by stroke, his dirty talk a low, dark accompaniment to the sound of our bodies colliding.
"You’re mine," he mutters, his teeth grazing my earlobe with a sharp nip. "In this bed, you belong to me. Just me. And you’re going to remember this long after the nightmares fade."
The orgasm is violent when it comes, a dark, jagged thing that leaves me shattered. I cry out his name—not as a plea, but as an admission of defeat. I clench around him, my fingers digging into his shoulders. He follows me a second later, a low, gutturalsound escaping him as he spills into me, his body shuddering with a force that feels like a silent scream.
He stays there for a moment, his chest heaving against mine, his head buried in the crook of my neck. I can feel his heartbeat—fast, erratic, and heavy with a weight I don't understand.
Then, he pulls back.
The silence that follows is different than before. It’s heavy. It’s freezing.
He gets out of bed without a word, not even looking at me. He pulls his trousers on, his back to me, the silver scars on his skin looking like accusations in the moonlight. I stay under the covers, pulling them up to my chin, the warmth of his body already fading into the cold air of the room.
"That was what you wanted?" he asks, his voice flat and clinical as he finally turns to look at me. His eyes are like stone. "A way to drown the noise?"
"Y-Yes," I whisper, the word feeling like ash in my mouth.
"Good." He picks up his shirt from the chair, his movements stiff. "I’m going to the study. I have work to do. Actual business, Gia. Not whatever this pathetic display was."
"Rafael—"
"Don't." He stops me with a look so cold it feels like a physical barrier. He’s angry—not because I’m a virgin, but because I made him feel like he mattered, and then told him he was just a service. He feels used, and a man like Rafael Caruso doesn't handle being a pawn well. "You wanted the line to be clear, little Gia. It’s crystal clear now."
He walks out of the room, the door closing with a definitive, soul-crushing click.
I lie in the dark, my body aching, my heart a heavy, cold stone in my chest. I’m safe. I’m claimed. And I’ve never been more alone in my entire life.
I think about the burner phone in the drawer.
I am a liar, I think. And the truth is going to kill us both.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RAFAEL
I’m going to lose my fucking mind.
The silence in the house isn’t quiet; it’s a goddamn physical weight, pressing against my chest every time I pass Gia in the hall. It’s been three weeks since I took her in the bedroom, since I found out she was a virgin and then she turned that revelation into a cold, hard business transaction.
Attraction. Nothing more. The words are a goddamn splinter in my brain. I look at her and I see the way she clenches her jaw, the way her eyes avoid mine, and I want to shake her until the Ghost Heiress cracks and the girl who moaned my name comes back. But I don't. I keep my distance because if I don't, I’m going to do something stupid. Like care. Like forget that she’s a De Luca and I’m a man who doesn't get second chances at love.
I’m standing in the gardens just outside my estate, the sun mocking me with its brightness. I’ve been out here for ten minutes, watching the gate, waiting for a delivery that was supposed to be here an hour ago. It’s a low-level annoyance, but it’s an excuse to be out of the house.
Gia is by the fountain, her fingers trailing in the water. She looks up, her expression guarded. Since that night, she’s been like a shadow—present, but unreachable.
My phone buzzes. It’s Matteo.
