The first thing I noticed when I woke was not the sunlight bleeding through the sheer curtains; it was silence.
No sounds of the city. No voices. Just the low hum of the air conditioning and the soft thunder of my heartbeat, racing too fast for an early morning.
I propped myself up in an unfamiliar bed, sheets cold against my skin, my mind viciously spinning trying to place the bits and pieces of the previous night into some coherent order. The kiss. His warning. The way he left me here as if I were just some thing to be put away until he decided otherwise.
That memory sickened me almost as much as how clearly I still recall it.
I slipped into the dress I had worn the night before, and stepped down the hall. The penthouse appeared different in the daylight, less a lair and more a fortress. The walls were lined with expensive paintings, dark and dramatic, as if belonging to a man who wouldn't buy art to indulge himself but make a statement.
Lorenzo was in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up and dark tie loosened; he looked like a collaboration of commerce and sin, and he was the one with unholy representation.
"You could have told me where I was when you left me in that room," I said.
He did not turn around as he poured himself a glass of water. "Would you have slept if I had?"
"Probably not."
"Exactly."
I crossed my arms. "You can't just—"
"Sit," he interrupted, nodding to the stool at the marble counter.
I remained still. "I am not your dog."
That earned me a slow look, the kind that caused goosebumps to stand out on my skin. "No. You are not. But you are mine right now; that is the difference."
It was the kind of words that transgressed the line of fire and oil. I sat, for mostly wanting to be there when it bloomed.
He placed the glass before me. "Drink."
"I'm well."
"Drink," he repeated, the flattest threat.
I took a sip, glaring at him from behind the rim. "Happy?"
"Not even close," he said, leaning against the counter. "But we will get there."
I slammed the glass down harder than necessary. "So you brought me here because you don't believe in leaving things unfinished? What does that even mean?"
"It means you and I have business," he said. "And in my world, businesses do not start without an oath."
Confused, I frowned. "An oath?"
He leaned in, the space between us growing stark. "In my family, loyalty isn't assumed; it is sworn. Once. And only once."
My heart quickened. "You think I would actually swear loyalty to you?"
"I think you already have, whether you realize it or not."
The air between us thickened. "And what if I refuse?"
"Then you walk out that door," he said, tipping his head toward the elevator. "But understand this, Isabella—refusing me does not make you free. It makes you unprotected. And right now, there are people who would kill you just to send me a message."
My chest tightened, but I masked it behind yet another laughter. "So I either pledge allegiance or die?"
His eyes turned dark. "I'm saying survive or die. The allegiance part is just to make it official."
I turned away to the skyline. From up here, the city seemed so very far—almost unattainable—like it belonged to someone else. Maybe it did.
"And what does this… oath involve?" I asked slowly.
His hand went into his pocket, and he pulled out a small black velvet box. My stomach dropped.
"It's not what you think," he said, flipping it open to reveal a silver signet ring. "This is the Valenti crest. Wear it, and you carry my name. My protection."
I stared at it. "And my freedom?"
He smiled then: cold and knowing. "That wasn't part of the deal."
I should have told him no. I should have left, and never look back. But deep down, I knew he was right-about the danger, about this not being my life anymore. Maybe it hadn't been since the minute I met him.
"What happens if I take it?" I asked.
"Then you're under my oath. Breaking it…" He leaned forward, dropping his voice to something almost intimate. "...breaking it would be your last mistake."
My gaze was drawn to the ring again, silver catching the light, knowing that putting it on was more than a mere promise; it was a death sentence.
But my hand still reached for it.