Page 18 of The Rose's Thorns

"When do you plan to join me again?"

Her breath catches almost imperceptibly. "I don't."

I move closer, close enough to see the rapid pulse at her throat, to smell the vanilla and amber of her perfume mixing with the scents of her fear and her arousal bleeding together. She holds her ground, but I can see the tremor in her hands, the way she presses her lips together to keep them steady.

"You don't intimidate me," she says, but her voice has lost some of its certainty.

"I don't need to."

The space between us disappears as I take another step. She's trapped between the makeup table and my body, and I can see the exact moment she realizes it. Her eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating despite the brightness of the room. The flush spreads from her neck to her cheeks, and her breathing becomes shallow, rapid.

"Are you always this flushed and breathless?" I ask, letting my voice drop to barely above a whisper as my hands rest on her shoulders. She stands abruptly and the chair scoots back, forcing me to take a step backward.

"Don't touch me," she says sharply.

I chuckle and smirk at her, lifting my chin, and before I can even prepare, she moves. Her hand rises before I can react, palm connecting with my cheek in a sharp crack that echoes off the walls. The sting spreads across my skin, but I don't step back. Instead, I smile.

"I can smell your arousal, Bella," I say, and the unfiltered words cloud the air between us.

She strikes me again, harder this time, her eyes blazing with fury that makes my blood run hot. "Get out."

But I don't move. I study her face, memorizing the way her chest rises and falls, the way she holds herself rigid despite the trembling I can see in her frame. She's magnificent in her anger, beautiful in her defiance, and I want to consume every inch of her resistance.

"You looked beautiful the night you sang for me," I tell her, my voice rough with want. "Next time, you won't leave until I'm satisfied."

The threat hangs between us, promise and warning wrapped in silk. She doesn't flinch, doesn't look away, but I can see the impact of my words in the way her body responds despite her mind's protests. The dressing room feels smaller, the air thicker, charged with the electricity of unspoken possibilities.

I step back, giving her space to breathe, to think, to remember. My hand finds the door handle, and I pause, letting my gaze travel over her one more time. She stands frozen, arms still crossed, chin still raised in defiance, but her body tells a different story. The flush has deepened, spreading down her neck and disappearing beneath the neckline of her dress. Her lips are parted slightly, breaths coming quick and shallow.

"Until next time, Rosa," I say, using the diminutive with deliberate intimacy.

I open the door and step into the corridor, leaving her alone with the echoes of our conversation and the expectation of what's to come. The opera house seems quieter now, the distant sounds of rehearsal muffled by the blood rushing in my ears. I move through the backstage area with the same measured pace I entered with, but something has shifted. The game has changed, evolved into something more dangerous and more necessary.

The afternoon light slants through the lobby windows as I make my way toward the exit. A few patrons mill about, early arrivals for the evening performance, their conversations stopping as I pass. I've become a disruption in their orderly world, a reminder that power exists outside their carefully maintained illusions.

The security guards watch me leave with the same suspicion they showed when I arrived. Their relief is palpable but unspoken. I push through the glass doors and into the Roman afternoon, the heat hitting my face as I descend the steps.

My car waits at the curb, engine running, Bruno behind the wheel. He doesn't ask questions as I slide into the passenger seat, doesn't comment on the tension radiating from my body or the slight redness still marking my cheek where her palm connected. He simply puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb.

The city passes by in a blur of ancient stone and modern chaos, but my mind remains fixed on the dressing room, on the way she looked at me with equal parts hatred and hunger. The slap still stings, but it's nothing compared to the fire building in my chest, the need that grows stronger with each encounter.

She thinks she can resist me, thinks her defiance will somehow protect her from what's inevitable. But I've seen the truth in her body's responses, tasted it in the air between us. She wants me as much as I want her, even if she'll never admit it aloud.

8

ROSARIA

The villa outside Florence emerges from the Tuscan hills as if carved from the landscape itself, stone walls weathered by centuries but standing strong against time and judgment. I arrive in the evening, the sky painted in shades of amber and rose, and this time, I don't feel the knot of dread in my stomach.

His second invitation came three days ago—handwritten, unsigned, but unmistakably his. The monogrammed envelope bore the golden S, and it smelled like him. This time, I don't hesitate before accepting, mostly because if he shows up at the opera house again, I'm going to lose my mind. Gossip hounds already can't let me take a piss during rehearsal without assuming I'm sneaking away for clandestine meetings.

Salvatore meets me at the entrance this time, dressed in a charcoal suit that seems to absorb the dying light. His eyes find mine immediately, and I see something different there—not the predatory calculation I've grown accustomed to but something deeper, more complex.

"Welcome, Rosa," he purrs softly, and I don't hate how he uses a nickname for me.

"Salvatore," I say, dipping my head in a professional, but polite, greeting.

He turns and extends his elbow to me, and I look around as if unsure what I'm supposed to do. Last time, his driver escorted me. This time, the personal touch feels almost too intimate. But I curl my hand around his bicep and allow him to escort me through the pristine, too-pretentious hallways.

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