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Weakness. That was what this was. And Diamantis couldn’t afford weakness.

I slipped out of bed, my muscles tense when all I wanted was to wake her with my cock inside her, remind us both that tenderness was not part of our arrangement.

I snapped the curtains shut, cloaking her in darkness.

The cool air of the hallway hit my heated skin as I walked away.

Time to continue with the plan.

* * *

I whisked the ricotta with mechanical precision. Added the flour. Sugar. Lemon zest scraped fresh from the rind. A splash of vanilla. Two eggs, cracked one-handed.

Control. That was what cooking was. The same discipline I applied to seducing Sabrina—though that comparison was less comfortable than it had been a week ago.

Each dollop of batter sizzled when it hit the hot oil. One, two, three, four. Perfect golden circles.

Her footsteps sounded on the terra-cotta tiles before she appeared. Light. Hesitant.

As if she needed permission to exist in my space. The thought made my jaw clench—then I caught myself. Since when did I care whether she felt welcome?

Sabrina entered with her arms up behind her head, twisting her hair into a messy bun.

“What are you doing?” Sleep made her voice husky.

My cock stirred.

I smiled. “Breakfast.”

She slipped onto a stool and tugged at the sleeves of my sweater.

The neckline slipped off one shoulder, revealing skin I’d marked last night. Mine. She was wearing my clothes, sitting in my kitchen, and for one dangerous moment, I let myself believe this was real. That I was simply a man making breakfast for the woman he⁠—

No. This was strategy. Domesticity as seduction. I was playing husband to make her forget she was a prisoner.

I transferred the frittelle to a plate and drizzled them with honey.

At the espresso machine, I prepared her cappuccino without asking.

“Two sugars,” I said, sliding the cup toward her. “I know.”

I caught her reaction—the vulnerability. The wondering. The hope I had no right to cultivate but couldn’t stop myself from feeding.

She wrapped her fingers around the cup and brought it to her lips. “It smells wonderful. What is it?”

“Frittelle di ricotta.” I placed the honey jar within her reach, alongside fresh berries.

I should tighten the leash, remind her who held the power here. Instead, I plated her breakfast like I was auditioning for the role of devoted husband.

Finally, she spoke. “So what happens when we return to Rome?”

I maintained a neutral expression. “What do you mean?”

Her brow furrowed. She bit her lower lip.

“You know what I mean, Sebastian. We can’t keep doing this.” She gestured between us. “This twisted game we’re playing.”

I braced my palms on the counter and leaned forward. “Make no mistake, Sabrina. This is not a game. Not to me.”