Page 23 of The Merciless Don's Bride

“Was that your escape attempt,bella?” he breathes, voice husky and low. “Because I have to say... I’m impressed.”

I try to ignore the ache building between my thighs at how easily he overtook me.

“Let me go,” I hiss.

He doesn’t move. Just dips his head lower until his mouth brushes the shell of my ear.

“You're fast. Precise. Sexy as hell when you're trying to break my nose,” he murmurs. “But don’t ever try that shit again. Next time... I won’t be gentle.”

My breath stutters in my throat.

Then, just as suddenly, he steps back. Releases me.

I stand there for a few moments, heart thudding like a drumbeat in my chest. Then I push off the wall and straighten my dress.

“See you in an hour and a half,bella,” he says over his shoulder. “Don’t be late.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me and Ana in the room. Although I might as well be alone with how quiet she is. I don’t miss the expression on her face after witnessing my sorry attempt at taking down the 6’4 mafia king.

What were you thinking, Cassie? I think suddenly feeling the weight of what just happened.

I need answers to my questions. I need to understand this confusing situation. And I need a way out of this mess.

***

I’m late out of spite.

The heels of my boots click against the marble floor as Ana guides me through the sprawling house. I tried to make conversation earlier in the room after she refused to leave but she barely said more than a couple of sentences. She mostly seemed intent in getting me dressed fast so as not to keep, ‘boss’ waiting. I rolled my eyes at that one and I took an extra-long shower on purpose.

When we stop in front of a set of heavy double doors, Ana gestures for me to go in. I take a breath, square my shoulders, and push the doors open. The room is not what I expected. Not an office or a formal sitting room like I’d been expecting to have a conversation with him in. It’s almost cozy and not the kind of place I’d expect in a house like this.

It’s a sort of lounge dressed in sleek furniture, polished floors, sun slanting through the tall windows, making the air shimmer. There’s also the tangle of potted plants to the side, the scent of jasmine and fresh earth hanging thick in the air. It’s soothing.

Two deep leather armchairs face each other near a low table in the corner. Each of them set with a carafe of water, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. And then there’s Damien Luciano.

He’s sprawled in one of the chairs, long legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes lift as I walk in, his intent gaze immediately studying me. I feel like I’m under a microscope anytime I’m in his presence. I walk slowly, intentionally letting my heels ring against the floor with every step.

“You’re late,” he points out.

“I wanted to make sure I was extra pretty for you,” I say in a low, mocking tone. “Does my outfit make you happy?”

A dangerous smile tugs at his lips as his eyes trace every inch of me slowly. He reaches for the bottle of whiskey and pours himself a small amount.

I’m wearing a simple blue dress that hugs my waist before flowing down to my knees. It was the outfit I hated the most in the closet. I didn’t have many options with regards to that, which irritated me. I actually like most of the clothes there. Whoever chose them definitely knows my style. I wonder if it was him. If he’s been watching me, trying to find out what I like.

It’s disturbing. And somehow... still a little sweet in a crazy, stalker killer kind of way. I have to escape this place!

“You look beautiful, Cassandra,” he says, voice low yet sincere enough to make my stomach twist.

I blink, caught off guard. He’s dressed down. No suit, no tie, just a fitted black sweater that hugs his broad chest and dark slacks that do entirely too much for his frame. He looks unfairly good. The kind of good that makes it hard to remember he’s the reason I’m in this gilded prison to begin with.

It pisses me off that I notice just how attractive this man is.

The compliment lingers in the air between us, soft and seductive, but all I hear is manipulation. Words meant to throw me off balance. And maybe they’re working.

Still, I don’t let it show.

I slide into the chair opposite him with a cool expression, crossing my legs at the knee and folding my hands in my lap like I’m immune. Like my pulse isn’t pounding with a traitorous beat.

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