Page 36 of Sin & Sapphire

Valentin leaned on the bed, shifting his hand to my forehead, where he stroked my temple. “Your uncle needs a new toy, and you’ve cost me millions. I’m looking forward to taking the price of what you’ve done out on this gorgeous creamy skin that’s begging for marks from my belt.”

His words cut deep. I’d fucked up, and once again, men wanted to take out their anger on my body.

“Ana,” he murmured. “You’re such a beautiful idiot. Every asshole who’s ever dreamed of making a name for themselves in the American mafia is after you, and now you’ve pissed off the French bratva—justified or not. You had a target on your back before, and now it’s even bigger. Your uncle Angelo and I will keep you safe.”

“Safe? Are you for fucking real?” I snarled, trying to reconcile his promises with the fact that I was naked and tied up on the fucking bed.

His lips turned up in a slight smile, as breathtaking as it was cruel. “In return, I’m going to hurt you. Then we’re going to train you until you’re a perfect little submissive who can’t live without our cocks.”

I wasn’t into that shit. I liked vanilla sex. Sweet sex. Sex where I felt like someone cared about me. Boring sex that didn’t do a thing for the ache in my pussy but soothed my soul when I could cuddle up to my partner afterward. Luca was the only man who’d found a way to make sweet be hot, and I’d left him behind too.

Not like Grégoire, who drugged me and raped me and beat me when I disobeyed. Fucking men.

“You’re disgusting,” I spat, turning my face away from him. “And you’ll never get away with this.”

“To the contrary, princess. You’re alone. No family except Angelo. As far as anyone else is concerned, you disappeared after you blew up Tchérnov’s yacht, and you never came back.”

The yawning pit in the bottom of my stomach grew, threatening to swallow me whole with terror.

Who would know? No one. Fucking no one. I hadn’t called the ex I’d left behind in Yorkfield. I hadn’t called my best friend. I hadn’t told anyone when I escaped because I couldn’t allow Angelo or Tchérnov to track me down.

Fuck.

I screamed my rage again, the sound primal and raw as I shredded my throat with my fury.

Valentin laughed softly. “Tu es tellement mignonne.” You’re so cute.

“I have to pee,” I said, the idea coming to me suddenly.

He raised an eyebrow, amusement briefly softening his harsh features. “Piss in the bed.”

I flushed at the thought, embarrassment shuffling through me as I imagined letting myself go, releasing in front of him and soaking the mattress.

He traced a finger from my nose to my clavicle, down my breastbone, to my belly button, where he flicked at the jewelry I’d inserted there, a green jeweled charm that dangled from my piercing.

“Where else are you pierced?” he asked, although he had to know, given that someone had stripped me naked and chained me to the bed.

I closed my eyes in humiliation as he inspected my naked body.

“Just my ears and my nose,” I whispered. I shifted restlessly, unsure of myself for the first time.

What did he want?

Did he wantme?

Did he see the bruises?

Did he care about the tattoos?

He dragged his hand over my stomach, tracing the lines of ink that ran from the bottom of my breasts, down my ribcage, and to my pelvis. Only in places a one-piece swimsuit would cover. I was a rebel, but I wasn’t fucking stupid. Visible tattoos would permanently affect my marriageability in a way that piercing my nose or my belly button wouldn’t, thanks to the mafia’s absurd obsession with purity, as if decorating my skin made me a slut. At the end of the day, women in my position were valuable tools—useful for our pussies, the alliances we’d bring, and our capacity to pop out babies.

And that was it.

My best friend was forging another path, carving out a place back home for herself in blood, backed by her husbands, and most importantly, accepted by her traditional Italian family.

What did I have? Fuckingnothing. My father was dead, and I couldn’t make myself mourn the bastard. He didn’t deserve a single one of my tears. But I could mourn the freedom I’d tasted, however briefly.

“Did you like getting pierced?”

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