The drive home was silent.
Not the comfortable kind—but the kind thick with tension, unspoken thoughts, and something simmering just beneath the surface. Valerio's hand rested on my thigh the entire way, firm and unmoving, as though he needed the physical reminder that I was still there.
Still his.
I stared out the window, replaying the night in my mind—the stares, the threats, the way his body had instinctively shielded mine. I had known marrying him meant danger.
I hadn't known it would feel like this.
The car slowed just before the estate gates when another vehicle pulled in behind us—sleek, black, familiar in a way that made Valerio's jaw tighten.
"Stay close," he murmured.
The car doors opened.
She stepped out like she owned the night.
Tall. Elegant. Dressed in red that clung to her like defiance. Her dark hair fell in perfect waves, her lips curved in a knowing smile as her eyes locked onto Valerio.
Then they slid to me.
And sharpened.
"Well," she said smoothly, walking closer. "So the rumors were true."
Valerio's hand slid possessively to my lower back. "You shouldn't be here, Alessia."
Alessia.
The name carried history. I felt it in the way his voice hardened, in the way her smile widened.
"And miss meeting your wife?" she replied, eyes never leaving mine. "That would've been rude."
She stopped directly in front of me, her gaze openly assessing. Measuring. Comparing.
"She's… softer than I imagined," Alessia said lightly. "You always did like surprises."
Valerio stiffened. "Enough."
I lifted my chin. "Do I know you?"
Her lips curved. "Not yet."
Valerio turned me gently but firmly toward the house. "Go inside."
"I'm not a child," I said quietly.
"No," he replied, voice low and dangerous. "You're my wife. And she doesn't get access to you."
That did it.
Something dark flashed in Alessia's eyes before she laughed. "Careful, Valerio. You're starting to sound… attached."
His answer was immediate. "I am."
The word landed between us like a loaded weapon.
Inside the house, my heart pounded. Anger. Jealousy. Curiosity. All of it tangled together.
"She was—" I began.
"An old mistake," Valerio cut in sharply. "One I won't allow near you."
Near me.
The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver down my spine.
In the quiet of his private office, the tension finally snapped.
"You didn't like the way she looked at me," I said.
"No," he admitted, stepping closer. "I didn't."
"And why is that?"
His eyes darkened. "Because she thinks she knows me. And because she forgets that what's mine is not for her to evaluate."
"What am I to you, Valerio?" I asked softly. "Property? Protection? Or something else?"
He stopped inches from me.
"You're the only person in this house who doesn't lie to me," he said. "The only one who looks at me without wanting something."
His hand rose, hesitating for a split second before brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. The touch was careful. Reverent.
"I didn't plan this," he admitted quietly. "You weren't part of the strategy."
"And now?"
"Now," he said, voice roughening, "you're becoming the part I protect the most."
My breath caught.
This wasn't just desire.
It was something deeper. More dangerous.
He rested his forehead against mine, the space between us electric. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
His hand tightened slightly at my waist—not claiming, not forcing—just holding. As if grounding himself in the reality of me.
When he finally pulled away, his voice was steady again, but his eyes were not.
"You should know," he said, "anyone who comes for you—woman or man—answers to me."
"I don't need you to fight my battles," I said.
A corner of his mouth lifted. "You don't get to choose that."
Later that night, lying in my bed, I realized something terrifying.
Valerio Knight wasn't just a powerful man playing husband.
He was a man losing control.
And the woman who knew him before me?
She wasn't finished yet.