Page 41 of Until You Break
Heat ripped through me, spine arching, body shuddering as I came, thick stripes spilling across the sheets. The smell of it mixed with sweat and cologne, sharp and overwhelming. My ass clenched around him, milking. He groaned low in my ear, voice guttural, driving deeper, base grinding against me as he spilled inside, hot waves filling me until I felt the drip down my thighs. He pulled out slow, catching the spill and smearing it higher, coating my hole, my ass, the small of my back.
“Mine,” he said, spreading it like paint. “Now they’ll smell me on you.”
A cloth came next, warm, damp. The first drag over my skin was almost gentle, but he chose where to wipe and where to leave me ruined. He cleaned my stomach, the mess on my thighs, but left streaks on my ass, cum rubbed into my skin like a brand. His rings scraped my stomach as he pressed the cloth lower, deliberate reminder of who held me.
His hand lingered, pressing the mess into me with the heel of his palm. “I want it to dry there,” he said, low. “So when you roll over, when you wake, you’ll smell me first. You’ll feel exactly where you belong.”
He turned me onto my back, came over me with that steady, consuming look.
“Look at me.”
I did, because not looking felt impossible.
“You did well,” he said. “Better than you thought.”
Tears pricked hot at my eyes, unspilled, shame burning sharper for how close they were. “You’re a bastard.”
“And yet,” he murmured, kissing me slow, filthy, tongue deep, tasting himself on me.
When he broke away, he hauled me down the bed, pulled me onto my side, tucked back against his chest. His arm came heavy over my waist, palm low, cock soft but still thick resting against my ass. His rings pressed cool into my stomach. Onehand brushed my hair back deliberately, making sure I felt the gesture, even as it trapped me deeper.
“You’re not a pawn. You’re the prize.” He rested his mouth against my temple. “You sleep here. Get used to it.”
“I won’t.”
“You will.” His lips brushed my temple. “Tomorrow, when you walk past them, they’ll know. That you’re mine. That you were good for me. That you’ll be good again. And if you aren’t, you’ll learn faster.”
I shut my eyes. His hand at my waist was a lock and a promise. His breath paced mine until I matched it. The door was still locked. The light still bright enough to humiliate, yet dim enough to keep my scars unseen. In the dark behind my eyes, shame curled tighter than comfort. My body throbbed with the soreness of first ruin, cum drying tacky on my skin, scent sharp, inescapable. I wasn’t untouched anymore. I never would be again.
Sleep dragged at me in slow, heavy pulls, but every time my body threatened to give in, the ache between my thighs reminded me whose bed I lay in. His palm tightened over my waist when I shifted, a subtle tug that reeled me back against his chest. Even in half-sleep he claimed me, cock soft but still present, a weight at the small of my back. I thought of the sheets stained beneath us, of how the scent would cling come morning, impossible to hide.
I hated him. I hated myself more for the part of me that settled under his arm, too tired, too used, too sore to fight anymore. My last thought before sleep took me was the cruelest one: that I was safer here, trapped in his bed, because right now, there was nowhere left for me to run.
CHAPTER 14
EMILIO
The bed was empty when I opened my eyes. Only the dent in the sheets and the faint clove-and-steel scent said he’d been there at all.
Married.Bound in law, in blood, in body. A word I never chose, but he wore it like a victory and carved it into me until I couldn’t forget it.
My muscles ached, sore in places I hadn’t known could bruise. When I sat up, the pull low in my body reminded me exactly where he’d split me open, raw and unignorable. My legs trembled when I tried to swing them off the bed, soreness dragging heat back into my cheeks. Every shift reminded me I was stretched, marked, used. The mess had dried tacky on my thighs, shame clinging with it. Shame curled sharper than comfort, but still I felt it: the way my body throbbed with the memory of him.
I tugged at the cuff of my sleeve and stared at the pale lines underneath, at the places I’d hurt myself, marks of a habit that felt like control until it didn’t. The lamp in the hall left them ghost-pale; in daylight they’d be darker, angry. I pressed the skin between my fingers until the ache of pressure was something I could name. If Damiano saw those marks, he would own themtoo. He would know where I chose to hurt and when, and he would use it the way he used everything: as leverage. The thought made bile climb my throat.
I took a hot shower, then dressed slow, fingers clumsy on buttons, half-expecting the lock to hold when I tried the door. It didn’t. Open, easy, as if I was meant to walk free. The hallway buzzed with morning: music drifting from somewhere unseen, the scent of espresso and sugar thick in the air, sunlight catching on polished marble. People passed and nodded, guards, cousins, servants, smiling like I belonged. I caught whispers too, low but sharp, the curl of glances sliding off me the second I looked. They’d seen me with Damiano last night. Already they’d rewrite captivity into devotion, humiliation into romance. A mafia palace wrapped in domestic warmth. Too much contrast. Too much ease.
I found the kitchen first. A tray of fresh scones steamed under linen, jam pots lined like soldiers. I stole one, still warm, crumbs sugaring my fingers, and poured coffee black from a silver pot. Normal. Almost. Through the open glass doors the garden spread, lemon trees glittering. And there, Damiano with the two old women I’d seen yesterday. Shawls bright as banners, voices carrying like they owned the sun. The summer heat pressed down even in the shade, lemon trees throwing bright shards of light across their shawls, perfume mixing with warm citrus air. His head bent toward them, black shirt gleaming in the light, as if he’d never left me at all.
Damiano looked up, like he’d felt me staring through the glass. His smile was small, crooked, private, the kind that said he knew exactly what I’d been thinking in the empty bed. He lifted a hand, not a wave, just a summons, and turned to the women beside him.
“Nonna. Aunt Cosima.” His voice carried, meant for me as much as them. “Meet my husband.”
Their heads turned in tandem. Two queens on a garden bench, shawls bright as flags, eyes sharper than knives. The cane tapped once, claiming me. Perfume, powder, saint candles drifted across the lemon trees, gossip layered in the air.
“Finally.” Nonna’s cane tapped like a gavel. “Last night was a proper wedding. I thought I’d die before I saw one again.”
Cosima’s smile spread slow, wicked with delight. “And up close, you’re so handsome,bello. Even more than I expected.”
