Page 14 of One Savage Union

Someone is here.

Heavy footsteps echo softly against the stone floor—too deliberate, too sure to belong to anyone but a man.

I can’t see him, only the faint silhouette just beyond the reach of a flickering lamp inside this cell. The room is drowned in pitch-black darkness, but the silence around me sharpens every sound, every breath, every shift of air.

I feel him—a subtle disturbance, like a gale building just beneath the surface. The air thickens with energy, coiling down my spine in a slow, aching crawl. He hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved closer, but I know he’s there. Watching. Waiting.

The floor lamp is to my right. I could reach for it, use it to stand, maybe fight. But I stay frozen. My knees won’t cooperate, not when my mind is racing with questions and dread.

Whoever he is, he’s the one who sent for me. Who probably sent that note.

His presence looms so large, it feels like the room shrinks to contain it.

Then I smell him.

Sandalwood and smoke, laced with black pepper—earthy, warm, and impossibly male. It doesn’t just drift through the air—it claims it.

Where the man who brought me here smelled only like like wealth and tailored suits, this scent offers more.

It’s Older. Wilder. More dangerous.

This is what power smells like.

And somehow, I know—without question or logic—that this man is the reason I’m here.

“Bella ragazza, it’s time to talk. We have much to discuss.”

His voice cuts through the dark—low, rich, and dangerously smooth. The kind of voice that doesn’t shout because it never needs to. People probably scramble to obey the moment he speaks.

Every syllable wraps around me like velvet laced with razor wire.

Seductive. Icy. Unmistakably in control.

My heart kicks against my ribs. Fast. Hard. Loud enough, I’m scared he might hear it. I want to see him—need to—but part of me hopes he stays in the shadows just a little longer. Because once I look into the face behind that voice, I won’t be able to pretend this is anything less than a nightmare.

I grip the edge of the cot, grounding myself. The lamp to my right flickers, casting gold along the concrete floor, but it doesn’t reach far enough. He stays hidden. Watching me.

Waiting.

In the dark, I feel a little less helpless a little more in control. If he’s the kind of man I think he is—and God help me, Iknowhe is—he’ll feed off any crack in my armor.

I can’t let him see the fear clawing at my throat.

Not yet.

Not ever.

I clear my throat, forcing myself to sound steady. “Who are you?” My words hang in the air, clipped and formal, like Mama taught me to do when I needed to command attention. I might be stuck in this cell, but I refuse to let him think he’s won.

The sound is scratchy, hoarse—not the pretty, assertive tone I’d perfected over the years, but it’s enough to stand on. I cringe inwardly but push forward. “Why am I here? Where are my phone and my belongings? People will be looking for me.”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, I hear the faint creak of leather as he moves closer, the soft click of his shoes against the concrete. My words don’t matter to him; his silence only fuels my unease. The lock rattles, and the heavy door swings open with a metallic groan. He steps inside, closing it behind him with a loud clang that makes me jump.

The lamp clicks to a higher level, and suddenly,light.

A brighter beam floods the room. I squeeze my eyes shut against the sting.

When I finally blink them open, I gasp.

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