Mia woke with a start, the pounding of her heart echoing in her chest like it wanted to tear her apart from the inside. For a moment, she thought she was still trapped in last night's nightmare—the one she couldn't erase, couldn't forget. The smell of him, the weight of his arms, the cold press of the gun, the roughness of his hands… it was all still there, lingering like smoke in a room.
Her eyes fluttered open, slow and hesitant, and the truth crashed over her. The nightmare wasn't gone. It had never left.
He was still there. Luca. Sleeping—or pretending to sleep—next to her, one arm draped across her waist, heavy, unyielding, claiming her as if she already belonged. His chest pressed against her back, each breath a slow, measured rhythm she couldn't escape. The brush of his fingers against her skin made her shiver, half from fear, half from something she couldn't name.
She tried to move, to shift, to pull away, but instinctively, he tightened his hold. Not harshly, not cruelly, but enough to remind her she had no space. Her stomach twisted violently, a sick churn of panic and nausea. She wanted to scream, to push him off, to bolt through the door, but the fear that he might wake in one of his moods stopped her. The kind of fear that sank into her bones and refused to leave.
She remembered last night, remembered his eyes, dark and raw with something she couldn't define, the way he had pressed her against him with a mix of rage and need, the dangerous thrill that had flickered when he saw her struggle. Her body shook involuntarily, and that small motion stirred him awake.
Slowly, deliberately, his eyes opened. Red-rimmed, heavy, and slightly glassy from the remnants of alcohol, they fixed on her. Not soft, not kind, just… him. Observing. Calculating. Unreadable.
Mia froze, her chest tightening, her breaths shallow. She could feel every pulse of his gaze, each one like a hand tightening around her throat. She wanted to shrink into the mattress, disappear entirely. She wanted to be anywhere else, anywhere but here, but she was trapped under the weight of him.
After a long moment, Luca sighed, the sound low and guttural, rubbing a hand over his face as though trying to wipe away something that had taken hold of him overnight. "You're still here," he muttered, almost to himself, voice hoarse, carrying that strange edge of tiredness that was half frustration, half relief.
Mia blinked at him, confused, terrified, trying to gauge whether the tension would snap into violence again or if he would leave her. Still here? As though he had expected her to vanish like mist. That thought alone made her stomach clench.
He glanced down at her trembling form, her tear-swollen eyes, her hands clutched tight to the shredded remains of her nightgown, and something flickered across his face. Not softness. Not kindness. Not even warmth. But restraint. A recognition, a hesitation he didn't let linger. Slowly, he withdrew his arm from her waist, sat up carefully on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his body tense, coiled.
Mia flinched instinctively and scrambled backward, curling herself against the bedspread. Her breaths came fast, shallow, like a bird cornered and unsure which way to flee. She hugged herself tighter, shivering, her skin cold despite the warmth of the room.
The silence stretched. Thick. Suffocating. Every tick of the clock sounded like a scream. Every creak of the floor under his weight made her flinch, even though he hadn't moved toward her.
Finally, he spoke, low and strained, like he was forcing the words past some internal barrier. "About last night…"
Her stomach dropped. She wanted him to apologize. To admit he'd been wrong. To say the words that would make her feel safe, even if only for a moment. But what came out wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't reassurance. It was darker, and it burned her more than any lash.
"I shouldn't have stopped," he said, voice low, almost a whisper, but heavy with a dangerous honesty.
Her chest froze. She couldn't breathe. Her mind spun, trying to process what he had just said.
He turned his gaze fully toward her then. The shadows under his eyes made his stare sharper, more intense. His jaw was tight, expression hard, but there was a strange, twisted truth in it—like he was confessing something he wasn't supposed to admit.
"I wanted to break you," he said softly, voice steady but not gentle. "And God help me… I still do."
Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. Horror sat in her throat, blocking every breath. Her body trembled, shaking violently, yet she couldn't move. She could only stare at him, frozen.
For a heartbeat, she glimpsed the man behind the monster, a man teetering on the edge of his own control. And the sight terrified her more than his cruelty.
Then, just as suddenly, he stood. Straightened his shirt, as if adjusting his armor. The dangerous glint vanished. He was back to the Luca she knew—the cold, ruthless, untouchable Luca. The man who punished, who controlled, who demanded obedience.
"You'll get a new dress," he said, voice flat, clipped, businesslike. "And you'll forget last night. If you don't… I'll make sure you do."
Without giving her a chance to answer, he walked out. The door closed behind him, but it didn't lock. The sound left a ringing silence in the room that made her whole body quiver.
She collapsed back onto the bed. Trembling. Heart still pounding. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she didn't cry. She couldn't. Not fully. Not yet.
Because buried deep beneath the terror, something else stirred—a thought she couldn't shake. Last night, she had seen something in him, something she wasn't supposed to. A glimpse of a man on the edge, a man who could crumble. A man who almost lost control entirely.
And that thought scared her more than anything else.
---
Meanwhile, Luca stormed down the corridor, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the frame. His hands were clenched into fists, knuckles white, his chest burning with a heat he couldn't cool. Every step felt heavy, weighted with the memory of her trembling beneath him, the salt of her tears on his tongue, the panic in her eyes.
He hated it. Hated the weakness that had clawed its way into him. He hated the way he had almost begged her to let him hold her, the way he had needed her, even just for a moment.
He was Luca Moretti. He had killed without hesitation. Slit his father's throat at fifteen without flinching. He was supposed to be untouchable. Not just by enemies, but by feelings, by attachments, by weakness. Yet with her, everything blurred. Every line he had drawn, every wall he had built, cracked and crumbled.
He stopped in front of the tall mirror in the corridor. Stared at his own reflection. A man in a tailored shirt, broad shoulders, jaw clenched. Eyes hollow. Hands shaking slightly. A monster.
"You're losing it," he muttered under his breath, voice low, almost bitter.
And the worst part? Deep down, he wasn't sure he wanted to find control again.
He remembered every second of last night, every tremor of her body, every tear. How fragile she had looked. How small. How defenceless. How completely human. And the thought of it… it gnawed at him. He hated it. And yet, he couldn't stop thinking about it. Couldn't stop feeling the pull.
He ran a hand down his face, rubbing his jaw. His fingers brushed his temple and came back bloody from the scratch he didn't remember making. Everything hurt. Every memory, every thought, every feeling. And yet, he craved her even more for it.
She was a mirror he didn't want to look into but couldn't stop staring at. He had tried to dominate, to control, to break her. But somewhere in that chaos, she had broken him instead. Not completely—he was still Luca Moretti. Still dangerous. Still a predator. But that tiny crack she'd made… it was there, and he could feel it spreading.
He spun on his heel, stalked toward his private office, and slammed the door behind him. His chest heaved, throat tight. He sank into the leather chair and buried his face in his hands.
"I am not weak," he muttered, though the words sounded hollow even to him.
But the truth—the terrifying, unspoken truth—was that he was. Weak. Weak in ways he had never been. She had exposed it. And now, every plan, every move, every thought was tangled with her presence, with the memory of her trembling beneath him, with the knowledge that he had wanted something he didn't fully understand.
For the first time, Luca Romano…
He was afraid.
Afraid of what she made him feel. Afraid of what he might do if he let go again. Afraid of the tiny, unbearable thought that maybe… just maybe… he didn't want to stop.