Page 86 of Savage Devotion

The microphone embedded in the camera captures Dominguez's voice with irritating clarity.

"Such fascinating stories you tell, belleza," his accented voice oozes through the speakers. "About your... hunger for passion and power."

Francesca's laugh floats back, a sound I've come to crave when we're alone, now deployed as a weapon against my enemy. The vial of our blood remains visible between her breasts, swinging gently with each movement, a declaration of ownership that simultaneously enrages and satisfies me.

"You see, not all cages feel like prisons, Xavier," she responds with perfect lightness to her voice, a sound that has my hands squeezing tight beside me. "Sometimes they become... thrones."

"And does Ravelli know his queen has wandered into another king's territory tonight?"

I grip the edge of the console, knuckles whitening as Dominguez's hand slides up Francesca's bare arm. My mark on her throat stands out against her pale skin, a bruise I left deliberately to brand her as mine.

Part of me burns with primal rage watching another man's hands on what's mine. Part of me, maybe the strategic monster my father created, recognizes the necessity.

We need those Spanish ports. We need the access codes only Dominguez possesses.

So I force myself to breathe. To focus. To remember that this is business, not betrayal.

"Would you like to see the view from my private quarters?" Dominguez suggests, his intention transparent. "The stars over the Mediterranean are particularly beautiful tonight."

"I'd love that," Francesca replies, her voice carrying the perfect blend of interest and innocence.

The camera angle shifts as they move, giving us glimpses of opulent corridors leading deeper into the yacht.

"Sir, are you sure she will be safe?" Marco asks quietly.

"She knows what she's doing," I reply, though my jaw clenches as Dominguez ushers her through a door into what must be his own private stateroom.

The space is as ostentatious as the man himself. Gold fixtures. Marble surfaces. Artwork worth millions displayed with casual arrogance. A massive bed sits against one wall, its purpose in tonight's seduction obvious even to a blind man.

"Such a beautiful space," Francesca observes, moving to examine a painting with deliberate grace. "Goya, isn't it? Original, I assume."

"Of course." Dominguez approaches her from behind, standing closer than necessary. "I accept nothing less than authentic treasures in my collection."

His eyes linger on her body in a way that makes my blood boil. The fucking comparison is clear. She's another treasure he intends to claim. Another acquisition for his collection.

"Speaking of treasures," Francesca pivots expertly, maintaining distance while drawing him into conversation. "I've heard fascinating things about your port operations in southern Spain."

Dominguez smiles, pouring two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. "Business already? I had hoped we might... enjoy each other's company first."

Through the camera, I watch her hand accept the drink, appearing to take the smallest possible sip while still maintaining eye contact.

Every movement she makes is a perfect performance. The Castellano princess groomed for strategic alliance, now deployed as the Ravelli queen.

"I find business can be quite... pleasurable with the right partner," she tells him, allowing her fingertips to brush his.

The Spanish magnate's breathing visibly changes at her touch. "As do I, belleza. As do I."

For the next thirty minutes, I'm forced to watch this exquisite torture. Francesca expertly navigates the conversation, steering Dominguez closer to our objective while maintaining just enough distance to keep him pursuing.

She's fucking brilliant.

Mentioning shipping routes casually between flirtatious comments. Dropping hints about Volkov vulnerabilities. Creating the illusion of shared enemies without explicitly naming names.

Pride battles with possessive rage in my chest. This is my queen. My partner. My most lethal weapon.

And yet each time Dominguez moves closer, each time his eyes linger on her breasts or his fingers brush against her skin, I feel something dangerous rising within me. Something dark and violent that my father would have called weakness.

"You know, Francesca," Dominguez says finally, setting aside his third drink. "As wonderful as this all is… I find myself wondering what Dante Ravelli would say if he could see his bride now..."

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