Page 67 of Lord of the Dark

I pressed my lips together, bit down so hard I tasted blood. I didn’t want to say it. I didn’t want to give it to him. But my body had long since surrendered, arching against the last remnants of defiance inside me. A sound—half moan, half cry—broke from my throat, and then the words slipped out, fractured but sincere: "I... belong to you."

For a moment, he stilled. Just one heartbeat. Then I heard it in his voice—the flash of triumph, the ominous glow of pure satisfaction. "Good girl," he murmured darkly. "Now you’ll feel it."

He dragged me against him, his body slamming into mine, hard, merciless—every thrust tore me further from reality, left nothing behind but heat and chaos. All I could feel was him—his skin, his breath, his untamed desire that stripped me layer by layer until nothing remained but what he awakened in me: a wild, untamed longing to let go, to surrender every last shred of control until nothing existed but him.

And as I unraveled beneath his hands, he gave me something intoxicating—permission to want everything, to take everything I craved. He gave me the certainty that I didn’t have to hide my hunger, the freedom to abandon myself to my lust without fear, without shame, without remorse. In his darkness, I found the right to remake myself. I gasped for air, my back arching, my core in flames. I was no longer capable of lying, not even of fighting. Only of confession.

"Alessandro—" A ragged sound. "Fuck… I’m yours."

He let it carry him, fucked me in a brutal rhythm that was more than sex. It was branding. A surrender that felt like freedom because I had chosen it. He moved inside me—ravaging and relentless. His breath grew faster, uneven, scorching my skin like embers as his fingers twisted deep in my hair, forcing my face into the leather seat. I felt myself tipping, my body tightening around him, clenching as if my very core refused to ever let him go.

I collapsed beneath him, my face pressed against the scorching leather, my entire body trembling, twitching, surrendering—and more fulfilled than ever. He followed mere seconds later. One last, deep thrust, his grip tightening further, as if he needed to cling to me. I felt him shudder inside me, tremble, then collapse—heavy and warm against me, like a warrior returning from an especially brutal battle. His hands remained on my skin. Not possessive. Just there. As if I were his anchor.

For a moment, a shimmering silence settled over everything—broken only by our ragged, uneven breaths. The air in the car was thick with heat, sweat, and the lingering aftermath of what had just happened between us. I twisted onto my back, my bodystill burning, my skin tingling everywhere he had touched—and even where he hadn’t touched, only marked.

Slowly, I turned my head, searching for his gaze. He lay beside me, half-propped up, his shoulders tense, his breath still rough.

"You’re madness in its purest form," I finally whispered hoarsely, my lips still raw from the battle we called tenderness.

A rough, breathless laugh escaped him, as if he could hardly believe what I did to him. With a firm grip, he pulled me toward him by my wrists. "You have no idea what you’re doing to me," he gasped, strained. "With you... I’m crossing lines I never thought I would.”

I said nothing. Could say nothing. My body was still a burning field of tremors and exhaustion.

He reached to the side, picked up the knife he’d used to mark me earlier, and with a quick motion, sliced through the zip tie.

The tension at my wrists eased, but the pain remained—in the form of two dark red welts, seared into my skin like memories. I let my arms drop, limp, took a deep breath as my head fell back against the window frame. "Great," I muttered with an ironic snort. "I look like I’ve been interrogated in Guantánamo. There’s no way I can go back to the office like this."

Alessandro only grinned wider—a look so devilish and satisfied, as if that had been his exact intention. "So fucking beautiful." Slowly, his gaze traveled over my body, half-bare, sweat-slicked and marked before him. I could practically feel how much he loved every bruise, every trace, every twitch.

"You… you cut through my panties," I blurted out, stunned, trying to gather myself. "You owe me a blouse—and a pair of panties now."

He was just undoing the top button of his shirt when I saw it.

A dark, slowly spreading stain on the white fabric—deep red.

"What the hell…?" I jerked upright, exhaustion instantly replaced by shock, my blood turning to ice. "Oh my God,Alessandro! You’re bleeding!" My voice nearly cracked with panic.

His eyes followed my gaze, dropping to the dark red stain at his side—then he cursed under his breath, more annoyed than concerned. With a sharp motion, he shoved the door open and stepped out without another word about it.

I stared after him in disbelief as he strolled to the trunk with infuriating calm, rummaged through it, and returned with a first-aid kit like he’d just scraped his knee.

"What… what are you doing?"

"Getting bandages," he muttered, as if this were the most normal response to a gunshot wound.

He set the supplies on the backseat, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it free from his waistband in one fluid motion.

I sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the bandage—soaked through, dark red over his left flank. But it wasn’t the wound that paralyzed me. It was the body beneath it. Muscles, hard and defined, carved like stone over his ribs, his chest, his abdomen.

"You’d better get used to blood around me," he said with a roguish smirk, pouring disinfectant over his hands as if this were just another routine emergency.

I said nothing, just kept staring, torn between slapping him and kissing him.

He peeled off the sodden bandage, examining the wound with a practiced eye, his face utterly still—no flinch, no sound. Just focused precision.

"I don’t even want to know how many times you’ve done this," I said dryly when I finally found my voice.

He shot me a knowing smile. "Enough to do it blindfolded."

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