Page 47 of Savage Don's Captive

I catch myself wondering what might’ve been if her mother hadn’t died, if she’d stayed in our world. Would she have become like Isabella—feared and respected? Would she stand beside me instead of against me?

That mouth would serve better purposes wrapped around my cock than talking back. She’d fit perfectly in the Commission. She’d fit perfectly at my side.

Fantasy. She wants out, I want in. If I act on these feelings, everything gets complicated. I need to bury this shit deep, lock it away, pray it stays buried.

I just need her to talk. Get Marco’s location, become made, then guarantee her safety when this is over. When she walks away, I’ll never see her again.

The steak tastes like ash. Not Rosaria’s fault—she hasn’t fucked up a meal in the half-century she’s been with us. Woman was probably cooking on hot stones before modern ovens existed.

“Timmy!”

He appears in his butler’s suit, silent and attentive.

“Have Rosaria prepare something for my guest.”

“Preferences, sir?”

“Protein. Soup. Vegetables. Fruit.”Something to put color back in her cheeks.

I dismiss him and push my plate aside. Unlocking my phone, I check on Alessa again. She’s at the bay window, watching the rain. The nightdress she’s wearing reminds me of how she hid her chest earlier—as if I haven’t seen every inch already.

Mental note—have Gabriella check those bruises. The stress and hunger are taking a visible toll. Dropping weight that fast is dangerous.

She’s becoming a ghost. Those bright eyes, now sunken and dull, dark circles beneath them like bruises. Her complexion, once warm, has turned ashen. Her lips—full and pink in my memories—are chapped and colorless. The healthy curves of her face have started to hollow, leaving sharp edges where soft lines should be.

The vibrant Alessa is disappearing, and I’m responsible. That knowledge burns worse than any bullet wound.

Time blurs until Timmy returns with a serving cart loaded with silver trays. The aroma hits before I even look at what Rosaria’s prepared.

“Should I call her down?”

I pocket my phone and stand. “We’ll take dinner to her.”

He wheels the cart toward her bedroom while I follow, mentally kicking myself for breaking another rule. My future with the Commission hangs by a thread, and I’m catering to her like a lovesick teenager.

At her door, I knock out of some twisted sense of decency but don’t wait for an answer. The food would freeze before she’d acknowledge me.

I push in and flip the lights. Alessa’s head snaps up before she rushes for her robe—silk that shimmers against her skin. Born to wear the finest things.

“What now?” Her arms wrap around herself like armor.

“Is that how you greet the man bringing food?” Timmy wheels in the cart and vanishes silently.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Sure. Sit down.” She just stares like I’ve sprouted horns. “Sit. Down.”

“You’re going to let me eat?”

“You make it sound like I’m intentionally starving you.”

“You are. And I am a prisoner.”

“Look, Alessa.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t want to fight. Just sit and eat.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. I just want to talk.”

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