Page 25 of Bound in Possession

The guard pales slightly but holds his ground, swallowing hard. "Sir, it's strict protocol for the event. Security reasons. We have to ensure no weapons enter the main hall. If we can't search her, we can't let her pass."

"I said, you won't touch her," I repeat, stepping closer until I am towering over him. "I will do it myself. You stand there and watch the scanner. If anything reacts when I press the dress, you'll know."

The guard nods quickly, eager to avoid a bloodbath before the party even starts.

I turn back to Camilla. She is looking up at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted slightly in surprise. The space between us vanishes as I step into her, backing her up slightly against the velvet-roped barrier.

They check me first and then I turn to Camilla. The search begins, and the air between us instantly turns thick, vibrating with a heavy, intoxicating sexual tension.

I start at her shoulders, my large hands sliding slowly down her bare arms, feeling the goosebumps erupt along her skin. I bring my hands to her torso, my palms pressing firmly against the expensive fabric of her dress. I slide them down her ribs, smoothing over the curve of her waist, mapping out every inch of her body right in front of the guards.

When my hands press against her lower stomach, I feel her entire body go rigid. Her breath hitches sharply, a tiny, breathless gasp escaping her throat. Her eyes lock onto mine, dark and completely trapped by my gaze. My mind flashes back to the bathroom an hour ago, the memory of her slick warmth on my fingers hitting me like a physical wave.

Seeing her react to my touch like this, right here in public, tests every ounce of my control. A primal urge rips through me, urging me to abandon the gala entirely, drag her back to the car, cart her straight home, and rip this dress off her body just to fuck her until she forgets her own name.

My hands glide further down, smoothing over the tight fabric of her gown along her legs. As my palm brushes high up against her inner thigh, my fingers hit something solid, rigid, and completely out of place beneath the silk.

A knife.

I don't freeze, keeping my movements perfectly fluid so the guards don't notice a thing. A dark, wicked smirk tugs at the corner of my lips. She stole a blade from my nightstand, I’m sure.

Instead of being angry, a twisted sense of amusement washes over me. My little captive has teeth, and she’s preparing for war. I slide my hands away to finish the sweep.

I turn a cold glare back to the guard, whose eyes are glued to the green light on his scanner. "We're clean," I state flatly.

"Y-yes, Pakhan. Go right ahead," he stammers, quickly stepping aside.

I offer my arm to Camilla again, my heart hammering a brutal rhythm against my ribs as I lean down to whisper in her ear. "You're lucky we have business inside, princess. Walk."

The heavy double doors open, and we step into the grand ballroom. The opulence of the gala is blinding—crystal chandeliers, flowing champagne, and the absolute elite of the criminal underworld and high society gathered under one roof.

But the moment we step onto the marble floor, a suffocating silence ripples through the crowd nearest to us.

The shock is instantaneous. Necks snap in our direction, and within seconds, the room is buzzing with frantic, hushed whispers. Seeing the Bratva Pakhan with a Caruso daughter creates immediate political distress. The tension in the room spikes to a fever pitch.

Everyone here knows about Viktor’s claim on her; they know about the blood feud brewing and seeing us together is equivalent to watching a match being dropped on a powder keg.

As we walk deeper into the room, the crowd parts before us like the Red Sea. I don't look at them, keeping my chin high, but I feel the raw, suffocating wave of fear following our footsteps.

An underboss from a minor syndicate attempts to step into our path to offer a polite greeting, his hands trembling as he holds a champagne flute. "Pakhan Sokolov, what a⁠—"

I don't even slow down. I simply look at him. I fix him with a cold, dead-eyed stare that promises a slow death if he takes another syllable. The man chokes on his own breath, turning completely pale as he instinctively stumbles backward, lowering his head in absolute submission. No one dares to look me directly in the eye. They pull their wives closer, step out of my peripheral vision, and lower their voices to a terrified murmur. They are reminded, in a single heartbeat, exactly why I rule this territory with an iron fist.

I glance down at Camilla, her arm locked securely in mine, ensuring she feels the sheer weight of the power protecting her tonight.

Despite the underlying panic freezing the room, the classical orchestra continues to play, and the party goes on, wrapped in a beautiful, dangerous facade.

I lead her across the ballroom floor toward the marble-topped bar, the crowd melting out of our way with frantic urgency. The bartender’s hands shake so violently that the neck of the crystal decanter clinks against the rim of the glass as he pours Camilla's drink.

Once he slides the glass over and retreats as far back into the corner as possible, Camilla looks up at me, a disdainful tilt to her lips. "Why is everyone so terrified of you?" she asks, swirling the liquid in her glass. "You're really not that scary."

A low laugh rumbles in my chest. "Keep telling yourself that."

Before she can respond, my body grows tense. I turn my head slightly and see Matteo Rossini approaching us through the crowd.

My posture hardens instantly, my instincts snapping into absolute alertness. Matteo is the head of the Rossini syndicate, and while we are currently reluctant allies, there is absolutely no concrete loyalty between us. In our world, an alliance can last exactly as long as it is mutually profitable, and not a second longer. He is a calculating snake, always waiting for a moment of weakness to strike.

But it isn't just Matteo who catches my attention. Walking smoothly at his side is Lydia.