Page 84 of Crown of Blood

Her thighs tremble as I spread them wider, exposing her cunt completely. I inhale deeply, savoring the scent of her arousal—the physical evidence that her defiance and submission are two sides of the same coin.

"And if I hear one word not specifically begging for release," I add, breath hot against her inner thigh, "Like the Christ looking down upon us, I'll leave you on this cross all night. Understand?"

She nods, throat working as she swallows nervously.

"Good girl."

I press my mouth to her warm pussy without warning, tongue flat and unforgiving as it drags through her slick folds. She gasps, hips bucking against the restraints.

I grasp her thighs, holding her immobile as I devour her juices like a man starved.

This is reclamation. This is ownership. This is reminding her exactly who she belongs to, even as she digs into the past I'm still trying to figure out.

My tongue circles her clit, teasing without providing the direct contact she craves. I can feel her body tensing, trying to shift to increase pressure where she needs it most. I deny her, retreating to trace patterns along her inner lips instead.

"Please," she whispers, the word escaping like a prayer.

I pull back entirely, leaving her hovering on the edge. "Please what?"

"Please make me come. Please, Luca."

The desperation in her voice sends heat surging through my veins. I return to her cunt with renewed vigor, sucking her clit between my lips as two fingers thrust into her tight heat. She cries out, walls clenching around me as I curve my fingers to find that spot that makes her unravel.

When her first orgasm hits, I don't slow down. I work her through it and beyond, relentless in my assault on her now oversensitive flesh.

She writhes against the restraints, thighs trembling violently as pleasure blurs into sweet torture.

"Luca—" she gasps, voice breaking. "I can't—"

"You can," I growl against her slick flesh. "And you will. You will come as many times as I decide."

I force a second orgasm from her, then a third, her body convulsing against the cross, sweat glistening on her skin in the dim red light. Only when she's sobbing my name, limp and utterly conquered, do I finally show mercy.

Rising to my feet, I wipe her wetness from my mouth with the back of my hand, satisfaction coiling in my chest at the sight of her—disheveled, marked, entirely mine.

Every inch the queen I've claimed her to be.

"Remember this moment," I tell her as I release her wrists from the cuffs, catching her weight as she sags forward into my arms. "Remember who you belong to."

She mumbles something against my chest, too exhausted for coherent speech. I lift her, cradling her against me as I carry her from the red room to our bed.

Later, as she sleeps beside me, I study the curve of her cheek in the moonlight.

She's beautiful, yet somehow, in a way I'm yet to discover… dangerous. Like a dark, twisted secret I'm only beginning to understand.

***

Two days pass in a blur of investigation and mounting internal rage.

I haunt my father's offices and secure rooms, piecing together fragments of a truth someone has tried desperately to erase. The missing files from Elena's murder case—clean, professional work.

This is an inside job, just as Matteo suggested.

Sleep becomes a luxury I can't afford. My desk overflows with documents and territory maps showing Volkov holdings adjacent to Ravelli acquisitions from thirty years ago. I've acquired transfer documents with signatures I recognize, and others that raise questions I've never thought to ask.

The timeline forms before me like a murder board. My mother's death. The territories that changed hands afterward. The subtle shift in alliances that followed.

And at the center of it all: Vito Ravelli.

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