Page 13 of Savage Devotion

"For what?" she demands, rubbing her wrists again.

"For your marking," I say simply. "Today you become a Ravelli."

Fear flashes across her face before she can control it.

"I said I won't wear your ring!" she says loudly, panic in her tone. "I won't speak vows to you. I will not be forced into marriage with a Ravelli!"

My smile makes her take another step back. "No rings. No vows."

I remove my glove, showing her my mutilated hand, the missing finger where I once wore the family ring. A symbol of what I have sacrificed for power, for the throne that should have been mine from birth.

"The Ravelli claim runs deeper than gold and hollow promises muttered before a witness." I turn to leave, pausing at the doorway. "Thirty minutes, princess. Wear the red dress in the back of the closet. If I have to return and redress you myself, you won't like the consequences."

Twenty-eight minutes later, she emerges from the bedroom.

The red dress clings to her body, the color stark against her pale skin. Blood red. Ravelli red. My mark on her before the permanent one is even applied.

The material hugs every curve, revealing enough cleavage to make a man's mouth water while maintaining the illusion of modesty. Her dark hair cascades down her back now, a deliberate choice to cover the dress's low cut from behind.

Marco and Vladimir stand at attention on either side of the living area, security ensuring she has no chance of escape. Her eyes scan them, assessing, calculating, filing away information for later use.

This girl is from our world. That much is clear.

And that is exactly why I have brought her here.

"Right on time," I observe, setting aside the intelligence reports I'd been reviewing. "You seem to have chosen rebellion through compliance? An interesting strategy."

Her smile is razor-sharp. "I'm simply curious what barbaric ritual you have planned. More drugging? Tribal scarification? Blood sacrifice? Or just a disgusting primal attempt to communicate ownership that reveals your deeply rooted childhood insecurities?"

Vladimir tenses beside me, hand moving toward his weapon.

I silence him with a gesture, amused by her audacity. Most men would strike her for such insolence. Most men are afraid of women who bite back.

I am not most men.

"Sit," I command, indicating the leather chair positioned in the center of the room. Previously occupied by various business associates who required persuasion of a physical nature. Today it will serve a different purpose.

She sits with the regal posture of the aristocrat she was raised to be, crossing one long leg over the other, hands resting on the armrests as though they're thrones.

Even captive, she carries power in her bones.

I retrieve the case from the side table, opening it to reveal the tattoo gun and inks inside. Custom-made, sterilized, prepared specifically for this moment. For her.

"The Ravelli family has traditions older than your grandfather's first sin," I explain, pulling on black gloves, watching her eyes track the movement. "When something, orsomeone, becomes Ravelli property, they are marked accordingly."

"I am not property," Francesca says, the words a familiar refrain already.

I laugh softly, the sound devoid of humor. "Your father's signature on our agreement says otherwise."

I withdraw a document from my inner jacket pocket, unfolding it before her eyes.

"Would you like to see where he signed away all rights to you? Where he specified that you now belong to me, body and soul, to do with as I please?"

Her face remains impassive, but her hands grip the armrests tighter, knuckles whitening. "My father's authority over me ended the moment your men drugged me in Vienna."

"Exactly. And mine began," I agree, setting the document aside. "Now comes the physical representation of that transfer." I lift the tattoo gun, testing its weight in my hand. "So… where would you prefer the Ravelli crest? Shoulder? Hip? Or perhaps somewhere more... intimate?"

Fear finally breaks through her careful mask, her chest rising and falling more rapidly. "You're going to tattoo me?"

---