I straighten, turning to look at Luca where he is leaning against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest, green eyes fixed on Rosalina with unmistakable hunger.
"Luca," I say. "Do you like her?"
Luca pushes off the counter, moving closer with that easy, predatory grace that makes people think he is harmless right up until the moment he is not. His gaze travels over Rosalina slowly, deliberately—starting at her face, trailing down the column of her throat, lingering on where my shirt gapes open slightly, following the line of her legs where they are pressed together beneath the hem.
"Yes," he says simply, and his voice is rough with want. "Fuck yes, I like her."
Rosalina's breathing stutters.
I turn to Gabriel, who still has his hand on her shoulder, who can probably feel the fine tremor running through her body.
"Gabriel," I say. "What about you?"
Gabriel's hand tightens slightly on her shoulder, and I see Rosalina suppress a shiver. He leans down, bringing his mouth close to her ear, and when he speaks his voice is low and dark and edged with satisfaction.
"I love a fighter," he says.
The effect is immediate. Rosalina's entire body reacts—shoulders tensing, breath catching, a visible flush creeping up her neck.
And there, in her eyes—a flash of something that looks an awful lot like arousal mixed with the fury.
"No," she says, and her voice comes out rougher than she probably intended. "No, you're not—I won't let you pimp me out like some kind of?—"
"Pimp you out?" I cut her off, genuine amusement coloring my tone despite the darkness of the moment. "Rosa, that's not what this is."
"Then what is it?" she demands, and there is real fear threading through her voice now, mixing with the anger.
I move fast, closing the distance between us in a single step, my hand shooting out to fist in her hair at the base of her skull. She gasps as I pull her head back, forcing her to look up at me, forcing her neck into a long vulnerable line that makes something primal and possessive roar to life in my chest.
I lean down, bringing my mouth so close to hers that our lips are almost touching, sharing the same breath, the same air, the same desperate tension.
"You keep saying you're my wife," I murmur against her mouth, and I can feel her trembling against me, can feel the rapid flutter of her pulse where my thumb presses against her throat. "But that's where you're wrong, Flower."
I pause, letting the anticipation build, letting her feel the inevitability of what is coming.
"You're not my wife," I whisper, and then I close the last millimeter of distance and crush my mouth against hers in a kiss that is claiming and brutal and absolutely uncompromising. "You're our wife."
She makes a sound against my mouth—half protest, half surrender—and then her hands are fisting in my shirt, and I cannot tell if she is trying to push me away or pull me closer, but it does not matter because I am already devouring her, already claiming her mouth with the kind of savage intensity that has been building since the moment Gabriel said her real name.
When I finally pull back, her lips are swollen and red, her eyes are dark and glazed, and her breathing is coming in ragged gasps that make her chest heave beneath my shirt.
"Ours," I say again, holding her gaze, making sure she understands. "Not just mine. Ours."
And from the heat burning in her eyes, the way her thighs are pressed together, the flush spreading across her skin—she understands perfectly.
8
ROSALINA
Seven days.
Seven whole days I have locked myself in this spare bedroom like some kind of deranged Rapunzel, except instead of letting down my hair I have been plotting increasingly creative escape attempts and wondering if I can fashion a weapon out of a decorative pillow.
The room is nice enough—too nice, actually, which somehow makes it worse. Cream-colored curtains that probably cost more than most people's cars. Furniture so expensive I am afraid to touch it. Windows that overlook a garden I am not allowed to visit because apparently fresh air is a privilege I have not earned.
The door is solid oak with a lock that would make a bank vault jealous—actually two locks, I discovered on day three: the sliding bolt deadlock they installed on the outside to keep me trapped in here, and a secondary lock on the inside that I'm sure was meant for security in case of intrusions. Mafia paranoia at its finest. I've been using it religiously, sliding the interior bolt home every time one of them leaves, taking whatever scrap of control I can get. If they want in, they'll have to break down thedoor or wait until I decide to let them. It's petty, maybe, but it's mine.
I have tested every single inch of this room for weaknesses approximately seven hundred times and found exactly none that will not result in me breaking multiple bones.
