Page 21 of Savage Devotion

"Four," I echo, bile rising in my throat at my own compliance.

By ten, my skin burns as if aflame. By fifteen, tears leak treacherously from my eyes despite my determination to remain stoic. Yet beneath the pain, my body thrums with a confusing arousal. Each strike sends shockwaves that somehow connect directly to my core, keeping alive the desire his fingers had awakened.

At twenty, he finally stops, his hand resting possessively on my heated flesh.

"Twenty," I whisper, the number barely audible.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his tone shifting to something almost gentle. "You took that beautifully."

His hand strokes my punished skin, the touch no longer punitive but soothing. The contrast is disorienting. Punishment followed by tenderness, pain giving way to pleasure.

"Look at you," he says, voice low and appreciative. "Marked with my crest, punished by my hand, and still so fucking beautiful."

He turns me over carefully, settling me on his lap rather than beside me. My cheeks burn with humiliation as I feel his hard length pressed against me, evidence that my punishment brought him pleasure.

What terrifies me more is the wetness between my thighs, the tight ache inside me that craves satisfaction.

"Now for your real lesson," he says, reaching for a remote on the side table. The massive television screen on the wall flickers to life, showing security footage of a hotel room I recognize immediately.

My father's office in Vienna.

The timestamp shows three weeks ago. Right before I was captured. My father sits at his desk, speaking to a man I recognize as Vladimir, the Volkov representative who had been watching me at the wedding.

"As agreed," my father is saying, sliding a document across the desk. "My daughter in exchange for Volkov protection of our southern territories and the Ravelli shipping routes."

Vladimir examines the document. It's the same one Dante showed me yesterday. "And you're certain she'll be... cooperative?"

My father laughs, the sound chilling in its callousness. "Francesca has been trained since birth for an advantageous match. Whether she realizes it or not, everything she is—her education, her languages, her social graces—was an investment toward this moment."

"And if she resists?"

My father shrugs, indifferent to my fate. "Dante Ravelli has certain... proclivities. If she proves difficult, I'm sure he'll find methods to ensure compliance."

The footage continues, showing the three-way agreement being signed. My father, Vladimir for the Volkovs, and a third signature I recognize as Dante's distinctive scrawl.

I sit frozen on Dante's lap, stomach churning.

I'd known, of course. I had guessed it the moment I woke in this prison, the moment I was taken from my own life. But seeing it confirmed, hearing my father's casual dismissal of my personhood...

"Why are showing me this?" I ask, voice hollow.

Dante's hand strokes my hair, the gesture incongruously gentle. "So you understand. Your father sold you without hesitation. The Volkovs delivered you as merchandise. And me? I finally claimed what was rightfully mine."

He turns off the footage, tilting my face toward his. "Your family discarded you, Francesca. But me? I see your value."

Something in his tone shifts, a raw edge entering his voice. "Trust me, princess. I know what it is to be expendable in your father's eyes. To be measured and found wanting. To be sacrificed for strategic advantage."

I stare at him, caught off-guard by this glimpse of vulnerability in the monster who holds me captive.

"What are you talking about?"

"My father chose Luca," he says simply, his eyes briefly haunted before shuttering closed again. "It was alwaysLuca. The throne, the power, the Ravelli legacy… it was all for my brother. I was the expendable son, useful only as the violent enforcer, never the heir."

Despite everything, I recognize the wound beneath his words. It's the same one I've carried my entire life. The knowledge that to your father, you are merely an asset to be leveraged, never a child to be cherished.

"The rules are simple, Francesca," he says, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "Obey me, and you'll find comfort, perhaps even pleasure. Defy me, and suffer consequences. But never forget…you're mine now. Not your father's to sell. Not the Volkovs' to trade. Mine to keep. Mine to break. Mine to remake into something worthy."

His lips brush my forehead, the gesture strangely tender after the violence of my punishment. "Rest now."

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