Page 78 of Ruthless Desire

My heart clenches, my tattered pride roaring its bitter dissent. "And if I do? If I give in, let you reshape me in your darkest image? What then?"

He smiles, slow and serpentine. "Then, my love? Then the real fun begins."

With that promise, that threat, he tucks me back into my dress, smoothing the wrinkles his passion has wrought. I let him, pliant and numb, a doll in the hands of a capricious master.

Hand in hand, we walk back to the villa, back to glittering smiles and sparkling conversation. But with each step, I feel the shape of his possession settle more deeply into my bones. An insidious knowing, an inescapable truth:

I am his, now and forever. And heaven help me...

A part of me rejoices in my fall from grace.

The walk back to the villa is a surreal blur, the distant strains of music and laughter growing louder with each step. Dante's arm is a steel band around my waist, his possessive grip a stark reminder of the dark claiming we've just indulged in.

I can feel the evidence of our coupling trickling down my thighs, a lewd seepage that flushes my cheeks and quickens my breath. It's not the first time I've played the coy ingenue with cum dripping between my legs, but it's the first time I've done it stone-cold sober.

The last time was at one of Sienna's infamous parties, when I was riding high on cocaine and the twisted thrill of being a fox in a henhouse. I'd let one of her entitled broker bros finger me to a screaming orgasm in the coat closet, then floated back into the crowd with his spend painting my inner thighs, a dirty little secret only I was privy to.

But that was before.

Before Dante, before my world narrowed down to the gilded cage of his obsession. He's the only drug I have access to now, his touch the only high left to me. And God help me, I'm starting to wonder if it's all I'll ever crave again.

We step onto the terrace, the clink of glasses and hum of conversation washing over me like a tidal wave. I plaster on a smile, the muscle memory of a thousand gallery openings and schmoozefests taking over. Dante’s lips brush my ear, his voice a dark purr that sets my nerve endings alight.

“Mingle, solnyshko. Dazzle them with your wit and grace. But as my cum slides down those creamy thighs, don’t forget who you’ll be begging to tear you apart again before the night is over.”

With a final squeeze of my hip, he melts into the crowd, leaving me bereft and aching. I take a shuddering breath, trying to ignore the way my body mourns the loss of his heat, the phantom pressure of his bruising grip.

"Natalie, cara mia!" Enzo's jovial greeting cuts through the static in my head, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners as he approaches. "You look absolutely radiant. Italian living agrees with you, no?"

His gaze flickers over my flushed cheeks, my kiss-bruised mouth, and I fight the urge to squirm. Can he smell Dante on my skin, see the shadows of his fingerprints on my flesh? The thought sends a perverse thrill zinging through me, even as my stomach twists with shame.

"Enzo," I manage, summoning a smile that feels brittle as spun glass. "You're too kind. I'm just trying to keep my head above water in all this splendor."

He chuckles, pressing a champagne flute into my hand. "Nonsense. You fit right in, bella. Like you were born to dazzle us all with your brilliance."

I take a sip of the bubbly, letting the effervescence dance across my tongue. It's a poor substitute for the cocaine that used to fuel me through these sorts of functions, the heady rush and diamond-sharp clarity nothing but a distant memory.

"You give me too much credit," I demur, my eyes scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Dante. "I'm just an artist playing dress-up, pretending to belong in a world I barely understand."

Enzo’s hand finds my elbow, a steadying anchor amidst the glittering whirl of the gala.

“Listen to me, Natalie. You are so much more than you give yourself credit for. I’ve seen your work—the raw, visceral power of it. That kind of talent, that kind of vision? It belongs wherever it damn well pleases.”

When did I become such a crybaby?

Enzo’s words hit me like a punch to the gut, raw and unexpected. He always knows what to say—like he can see the fractures in me that my father used to mend. The pieces of me that needed Dad like oxygen, his words the glue that held me together.

I miss him so much. The ache in my chest is constant, a wound that never heals. And I should hate Dante for taking me from him, for ripping me away from the only real warmth I’ve ever known. I should hate him with every fiber of my being.

But I don’t. I can’t.

Because in this sea of sharks and vipers, Enzo stands out. He’s genuine, a beacon of human warmth untainted by the darkness that surrounds us. His kindness is a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge of the abyss that Dante keeps me teetering over.

The urge to unburden myself to him, to spill the dark secrets festering inside me, is overwhelming. I want to tell him everything—about Dante, about what I’ve done, about the parts of me I’m afraid I’ll never get back. I want to confess, to let the words tumble out in a desperate plea for redemption.

Not like I can, since the words are lodged in my throat… choking me.

I take another sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing against my tongue, a poor distraction from the storm brewing inside me. My pulse hammers in my ears, the weight of my secrets pressing down on me, suffocating.

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