Page 30 of Savage Devotion

His fingers tighten slightly on my skin. "You were meant to be a pawn, Francesca. But you're beginning to prove yourself something far more valuable. Something I never expected."

"They made us expendable," I whisper, finally understanding the bond forming between us despite every reason it shouldn't exist. "Perhaps that's what makes us dangerous."

"Perhaps," he agrees, his lips brushing my temple in a gesture too tender for our circumstance. "But perhaps it's what will make us victorious in the end."

As he holds me in the darkness, I find myself balanced on a knife's edge of contradictions.

The monster who imprisoned me has shown me pleasure beyond imagination. The man who branded me as property now treats me with unexpected tenderness.

And I—the captive princess who just tried to kill him—find myself curled against his chest, wondering if two broken people might fit together in ways that intact ones never could.

Chapter Eight

Dante

Two days have passed since the night she tried to kill me, since I tasted her surrender on my tongue.

Forty-eight long fucking hours of restraint that's become its own form of torture.

My cock hardens at the memory of her wetness, the virgin sweetness I sampled but deliberately didn't claim.

That final surrender… her complete possession and claiming…

I'm saving that for when she breaks entirely. When she begs for it. When she acknowledges with her body and mind that she belongs to me completely.

On the screens in my office, I watch as Francesca moves through the rooftop garden. It's become her favorite place, and I catch myself staring as her fingertips brush the rare orchids with unexpected tenderness.

She's wearing the blue dress I rarely choose, but the color transforms her eyes to molten gold in the rare morning sunlight.

She pauses by the fountain, face tilted upward toward the London sky visible through the glass ceiling. The sight of her throat exposed, vulnerable, sends a primal hunger through me that I force myself to suppress.

Vito taught me well. Power isn't just about taking what you want, but controlling when you take it.

A sharp knock interrupts my thoughts.

"Enter," I command, closing the folder containing Luca's latest territorial acquisitions.

Marco appears with the day's correspondence balanced on a silver tray—business communications, financial reports, and… a single cream-colored envelope that immediately catches my attention.

I examine the embossed invitation between my fingers, gold foil catching the morning light. The card stock is thick, expensive… the kind that speaks of old money and exclusive access.

"What the fuck is this?Le Masquerade Noir," I read aloud, running my thumb over the raised lettering. "Paris. Three days from now."

Marco stands at attention opposite my desk, his face impassive as always. "The Volkovs host it this year. Every significant family of power and influence in Europe attends."

"And my brother?" I ask, my voice casual despite the way my muscles tighten at the mere thought of Luca.

"Confirmed. He and his..." Marco hesitates, searching for the appropriate term, "...wife will be in attendance. First public appearance since their coronation."

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight as I consider the implications.

The timing couldn't be more perfect. Or more dangerous.

Paris represents neutral ground, a place where ancient codes of conduct prevent outright violence, but alliances can be forged, territories negotiated, and statements made.

"Book the jet," I decide, tossing the invitation onto my desk. "Arrange the usual security protocols."

"And the girl?" Marco asks, his eyes carefully avoiding mine. "Will you be leaving Ms. Castellano secured here, or...?"

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