Page 38 of Ruthless Desire

With that, he turns and strides from the room, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoes in my bones.

I slide to the floor, my legs unable to support me any longer. My heart races, my skin electric with the lingering sensation of his touch. I want to weep, to scream, to claw at the walls until my nails break and my fingers bleed.

But I don't. I can't. Because some twisted, treacherous part of me is already yearning for his return, craving the dark seduction of his presence.

No. I shake my head violently, trying to clear it of these dangerous thoughts. I won't let him win. I can't. There has to be a way out of this labyrinth of silk and shadow. I just have to find it.

Before he finds his way any further into my mind, my heart.

I force myself to stand on shaky legs, surveying the chaos of scattered gifts around me. My eyes land on the box of art supplies, still unopened.

For a moment, I'm tempted. The urge to lose myself in creation, to pour my anguish onto canvas, is almost overwhelming. But I know I can't. My art has always been my sanctuary, my one true form of self-expression. If I let Dante see that part of me, if I give him that intimate glimpse into my psyche... I might as well hand him the key to my soul.

With a sob that feels like it's torn from the depths of my being, I grab the box and hurl it against the wall. Paintbrushes and charcoal scatter across the floor, a rainbow of oil paints exploding in a grotesque parody of my shattered dreams.

"I hate you," I whisper, unsure if I'm talking to Dante or myself. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."

But even as the words leave my lips, I know they're a lie. The truth is far more terrifying, far more damning.

I don't hate Dante Corleone. I fear him, yes. Loathe what he's done to me, absolutely.

But hate? No. And that, more than anything, makes me wonder if I'm already lost.

As night falls, casting long shadows across my opulent prison, I curl up on the massive bed. I clutch a pillow to my chest, pretending for just a moment that it's my dad's strong, comforting embrace.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," I whisper into the darkness, tears finally spilling over. "I'm so sorry. Please... please find me. Save me from this. From him. From myself."

But as I drift into an uneasy sleep, Dante's words echo in my mind, a dark prophecy I fear may already be coming true:

"You'll thank me for it."

I wake with a start, heart pounding, those words still ringing in my ears. Sweat plasters my clothes to my skin, and for a moment, I'm disoriented. Then reality crashes back, cold and merciless as the pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains.

I'm still here. Still trapped in Dante's twisted fairy tale.

Groaning, I roll out of bed, my body aching in places I didn't know could ache. My reflection in the ornate mirror stops me cold. I barely recognize the woman staring back at me – hair wild, eyes haunted, lips swollen from Dante's brutal kisses.

"Get it together, Natalie," I mutter, running a shaky hand through my tangled locks. "You're stronger than this. You have to be."

But am I? Really? The doubt gnaws at me, insidious as the hunger that's been growing in the pit of my stomach. Not just for food – Dante makes sure I'm well-fed, like a prized pet – but for... something else. Something darker. Something I'm terrified to name.

A soft knock at the door jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. I tense, expecting Dante's imposing presence, but it's Alonzo who enters, carrying a tray laden with breakfast.

"Morning, miss," he grunts, setting the tray on a nearby table. "Boss thought you might be hungry."

My stomach growls traitorously at the sight of fresh fruit, pastries, and steaming coffee. But pride makes me lift my chin, eyes narrowing. "Tell your boss I'm not interested in his... generosity."

Alonzo sighs, his craggy face a mask of resignation. "Look, miss. I get it. You're angry, scared. But trust me when I say it's better to play along. The boss, he... he doesn't take kindly to being refused."

A chill runs down my spine at the warning in his tone. "What's he going to do?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds. "Kill me?"

Alonzo's laugh is humorless. "Nah. Death would be too easy, too quick. The boss, he likes to savor things. Especially his... favorites."

The way he says 'favorites' makes my skin crawl. "I'm not his anything," I spit, even as a stupid part of me thrills at the idea of being Dante's 'favorite.'

Alonzo just shakes his head, already heading for the door. "Keep telling yourself that, miss. Maybe one day you'll even believe it."

As the lock clicks behind him, I slump into a chair, the fight draining out of me. My eyes land on the tray, stomach clenching painfully. God, when was the last time I ate?

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