Page 20 of Brutal Union
As I clean his blood from my hands, I see Mother's hands in mine: steady despite everything, competent in crisis. She taught me to handle wounds. Now I'm healing my captor's. The irony burns my throat.
"She tried to leave once," I continue, the words spilling out. "That's when things got worse. That's when I really learned how to help, how to handle the aftermath."
The wound is clean now, closed with neat stitches that will leave a minimal scar. I dab antiseptic on the area, feel him tense at the sting. This close, I can smell his cologne mixed with blood and sweat and bleach, a combination that makes my pussy clench despite everything.
"There." I step back, but his hand catches my wrist, gentle where Father's grip would have bruised.
"He won't touch you," Marco says softly. "Ever. I promise you that."
"He already sold me." The memories of Mother's suffering are making my throat tight. "Just like he destroyed her."
"But you survived." He pulls me closer, and I don't resist. "You learned to heal what violence broke. That's not weakness, principessa. That's strength."
Standing here in his bathroom, my hands still bloody from tending his wound, the memories of Mother's suffering fresh in my mind, something shifts between us. An understanding that we've both been shaped by violence: him as the inflictor, me as the witness to its aftermath.
I can't stop shaking.
Hours have passed since the attack, but every time I close my eyes, I see bodies on marble, blood pooling in perfect light. The far edge of his bed where I've been sleeping feels too exposed, even though the security system has been repaired and two guards now patrol the hallway.
I lie rigid on my side of the California king, as far from him as the mattress allows, but it's not enough. The shadows seem to move, every sound makes me flinch. What would Mother think, seeing me wish for comfort from my captor? But Mother's dead, and I'm alive, and being alive means surviving however I can.
"I can't sleep." The admission burns. "I keep seeing them. Hearing them."
"Come here." His voice is rough with pain or exhaustion.
I should refuse. Should maintain what little distance remains between us. But the nightmares are louder than my pride, so I slide across the space between us until I'm pressed against his uninjured side.
"I need…" I start, then stop, unsure how to ask.
"What do you need?" His voice is gentle in the darkness.
"Just… hold me. Please." The words burn with vulnerability.
His arm comes around me, careful of his injury, pulling me closer against him. I press my face into his bare chest, breathing in his scent, letting his heartbeat drown out the echoes of violence. His hand strokes my hair with surprising gentleness.
"I'll always protect you," he murmurs against my hair, the words a vow and a claim. "No one touches what's mine. Not the Irish, not your father, not anyone who draws breath in my city."
"This doesn't change anything," I whisper into his skin, even as my body molds itself against his.
"I know." His lips brush my hair. "But let me comfort you tonight. Let me hold you until the nightmares fade. You're protected here, principessa. Always protected."
And somehow, surrounded by his warmth, sheltered in his arms, I believe him. The comfort he offers seeps into my bones, chasing away the terror. His heartbeat steady beneath my ear, his arms strong around me, keeping the darkness at bay.
My eyes grow heavy, exhaustion finally winning over fear. The last coherent thought I have is how perfectly I fit against him: every curve finding its place against his hard planes. How right this feels, even though it shouldn't. How my body recognizes his as safety, as home, even as my mind rebels against the thought.
I drift into sleep, safe in my captor's arms, his warmth chasing away the cold terror of the night.
When I wake, the first thing I'll feel is his cock pressed against my back, hard and insistent in the morning light. And the first choice I'll make is whether to pull away, or push back against him, finally surrendering to this hunger that's been building for twelve days.
But that's tomorrow's battle. Tonight, I let myself have this: his protection, his comfort, his arms holding me like I'm something precious rather than something owned.
8 - Marco
Every man in this club is watching you, principessa. They want what’s mine.
The words burn in my ear as I guide Valentina through Noir's VIP entrance, my hand possessively placed on the small of her back. The red gown clings to her curves like liquid fire, the same dress that tested my control in that boutique. She chose it tonight without prompting, and we both know why. She wanted to see that hunger in my eyes again, wanted to feel the power of bringing Marco Rosetti to the edge with just silk and skin.
The club pulses with bass heavy enough to feel in your chest, darkness broken by strategic lighting that turns everything intimate and dangerous. My territory. My rules. My beautiful captive on display for every associate and enemy to see exactly who she belongs to now.
