Valentina De Luca hadn't slept.
Not because of the arranged marriage that hovered like a noose.
Not because her father had traded her like a silk-wrapped bribe to the Moretti family to secure peace in their bloody business.
And certainly not because she feared being taken away.
No she hadn't slept because of him.
The man standing outside her door like a death sentence in designer black.
Lorenzo Moretti.
He had barely spoken a word since his arrival last night, but his silence was the kind that screamed. He exuded quiet violence like a predator who had already chosen its prey and was simply biding time before the pounce.
She could feel him through the wall.
His presence. His heat. His restraint.
It was maddening.
So, when she stepped into the hallway at sunrise barefoot, hair wild, wearing nothing but a satin camisole and silk robe she expected him to look away.
He didn't.
"Sleep well?" she asked, tilting her head.
Lorenzo's stormy gray eyes dragged from her throat to the soft dip at the curve of her waist.
"I don't sleep on duty," he said.
"Pity," she murmured. "Must be exhausting being a statue."
His lips twitched, just enough to betray amusement.
"You walk around half-naked, and I'm the problem?"
She raised a brow. "You're standing outside my door, armed and growling. That's the problem."
"No, princesa. That's the solution."
Valentina stiffened at the nickname. Her father used it to control her. Lorenzo said it like a threat.
Or worse like a promise.
She turned and walked away, hips swaying more than necessary. If he was going to act like a predator, then she'd make sure she gave him something worth hunting.
By noon, Valentina had retreated to the solarium her sanctuary in a gilded cage.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden beams over her bare legs as she curled on a velvet chaise, reading Anna Karenina. The irony wasn't lost on her.
A woman destroyed by a man.
The book trembled slightly in her hands.
She looked up.
He was there again.
Standing like a sentinel in black, arms folded, jaw set. The ink on his neck barely peeked above his collar just a glimpse of a snarling wolf's jaw.
Lupo.
They called him that in whispers.
The Wolf.
She snapped the book shut. "Tell me, Lorenzo is staring at women your full-time profession or just a personal hobby?"
He said nothing for a moment.
Then: "I only stare when they want me to."
She smirked. "Arrogant."
"Observant."
She rose slowly, letting her robe slip just enough to expose the delicate strap of her camisole. His gaze flickered. Still, he stayed rooted.
"Let's say I do want you to look. Then what?"
Lorenzo pushed off the wall. Each step he took was deliberate. Quiet. Dangerous.
Now he was in front of her, inches away. Her breath caught.
He smelled like danger, like smoke and leather and sin. His body radiated heat, but his voice was cold.
"Then I'd say you've forgotten the rules."
Valentina swallowed. Her pulse skittered.
"I don't remember agreeing to any."
"You didn't have to," he murmured, brushing a finger down the edge of her robe but never touching skin. "Your father made them for you."
She shivered not from fear.
From the exquisite almost of it all.
"And if I break them?"
His eyes darkened. "Then I break you."
The words weren't a threat. They were a prophecy.
Then he stepped back. Just like that.
Leaving her flushed, furious, and gasping with a hunger she didn't want to name.