Page 45 of Until You Break
“Please.” The word tasted wrong in my mouth.
He leaned in, brushed a kiss against my mouth, playful, sharp, gone before I could resist. My lips burned like he’d left a mark anyway.
“Better.” He didn’t hand it over. He walked to the desk, placed the paper carefully, then leaned on the edge like a man considering furniture he’d already ordered.
“You’ll pass the day sketching.” His tone was firm, but there was a rough kindness threaded through it. “Cupboard’s stacked with sketchbooks, pencils, paints. Use them. Spend the day here, with music, with work. If you need anything, call personnel. They’ll bring it. You’re not locked in. You’re occupied.”
The words landed like orders, not generosity, and yet he’d given me something I missed. A gift disguised as command, disguised as control. Even my freedom was curated. Even my art, a leash. The paper smelled new, official, like every page had already been cleared by the house before it reached my hands. Somewhere above, a faint hum betrayed the cameras, always listening.
My chest tightened. “Sketchbooks. You’re giving me sketchbooks.” Disbelief tangled with something warmer. Resentment licked too, ugly and hot, because I wanted them.
“Si.” His head tilted, eyes glinting, voice stern even in concession. “I need you occupied. You’re my husband. So I brought you a wedding gift. I’ll keep you satisfied, on paper, in music, and everywhere else.”
“I don’t—” My protest stuck in my throat.
He stepped in, stealing space. He didn’t kiss me, just hovered in the idea of it, close enough for my skin to flush hot. Blood surged lower, traitor heat stiffening me. His gaze dipped once, caught it, and lingered with approval.
“Good,” he murmured, satisfaction cutting through me like a blade. “I like when you wear it on your skin.”
“You ruin everything you touch.” My voice trembled.
A private, terrible smile. “Only the things that are worthy of total ruin.”
I wanted to throw the record player, the desk, him. The urge burned hotter because his words had twisted in me, making me feel worthy when I hated wanting it, making me love the weight of being seen. Heat pulsed low, shame curling with arousal. Instead I found the needle again. The music hissed and caught, the trumpet got its breath back. My hands shook, obvious, betraying. He watched, eyes glinting with hunger.
The record spun, rasping secrets we hadn’t earned. The air smelled of clove and lemon. My pulse pounded, furious at me for chasing it anyway. And beneath the fury was something worse, the suspicion that part of me already wanted to be caught. Want burned under my skin, heat I couldn’t shake, shame twisting with desire until it felt the same.
He straightened, still smiling, but didn’t leave at once. He leaned in, close enough that clove and steel brushed the back of my throat, his mouth near my ear. “Don’t disappoint me,piccolino. I want to hear the music when I come back.” His gaze dragged down me, slow and claiming, before he finally turned away.
“I have work to do. Records are in the drawer by the desk.”
And then he left me with the music and the sunlight, the scent of him still thick in the air. From the hall I caught Luca’s voice again, low and amused, asking if Damiano was coming. A door shut after, the sound of them walking away together, business resuming while I was left here to fill silence with graphite and shame.
I sat at the desk, hand hovering over the page. Empty. Waiting. I pressed the pencil down, but all I could see was his shadow, already smudging the lines before I’d begun.
CHAPTER 15
DAMIANO
The day had run long with messages and meetings, the kind that grind without drawing blood. By dinner, the house pulled itself back together. Wine sat on the table, rosemary hung thick in the air, family gathered in the kitchen like it had always been this way.
Emilio still thought he had choices left. He wore that belief like a thin coat, pretty, useless against weather. If he stayed upstairs, I’d go up and carry him down in front of them all. But he came of his own will. No cuffs, no leash, no drugged compliance. That choice carried more weight than anything I could have forced. Pride curled hot in my chest, though I’d never speak it.
The kitchen ran on campaign rhythm, pans talking in code, knives bright as decisions, lamb spitting under garlic and oil. Rosemary seared deep into the air, fat dripping onto hot pans, red wine already reduced sharp at the back of the stove. Bowls of olives sweated on the counter, and flatbread tore easy under eager hands. The weight of a family meal pressed in, ancient, ritual. I wondered if he would come down. He had never stepped into this house by choice before; every time until now had beenforce. This would be the first step toward living here, not just being taken.
“You know what I’m thinking?” Luca announced to no one in particular, because silence makes him itch. He tilted grappa, grin already loaded. “Tonight we celebrate your wedding properly. Rooftop. Fireworks. Someone gets stabbed, someone gets laid.”
Alessandro didn’t look up from his paper. His page turned like a blade filing itself. “Your answer to everything.”
“Because it works,” Luca said, pleased with his own gospel. “Remember Zio Leone’s funeral? Half the women didn’t go home until dawn.”
“Half were cousins,” Alessandro murmured.
“Palermo style,” Luca sang.
Let them warm the air. Beneath their noise, a steadier drum kept time with Marcella’s clocks.
Would he come down?
