Elena didn't notice it at first.
That was the cruel part.
They were at a gathering Luca hadn't warned her about—one of those quiet, dangerous meetings disguised as civility. Men in tailored suits, polished shoes catching the candlelight. Women draped in elegance and calculation, their laughter precise, practiced. Every smile carried a price. Every glance measured intent. Every gesture—light, deliberate—was a weapon.
Elena stood at Luca's side, composed, observant. She had learned the posture—how to belong without yielding, how to watch without being seen, how to move without revealing weakness. Her dress brushed the marble floors silently. Her eyes swept the room, noting alliances, measuring distances, cataloging threats.
Then someone else noticed her.
A man she didn't recognize. Younger than Luca, but confident. Less disciplined. His gaze lingered too long, curiosity sharpening into interest. He stepped closer, too casual for the stakes, yet deliberate enough to send a ripple through the room. When he spoke, the words were smooth, polite—but underneath, they were sharpened with intent.
"You're Moretti's wife," he said. "I expected…different."
Elena arched a brow. "Disappointed?"
"Surprised," he corrected. "You look like someone who should be somewhere brighter. Somewhere lighter."
Before she could respond, Luca's hand settled at the small of her back.
Not hard. Not gentle.
Claiming.
The man's smile faltered immediately. A subtle shift in the air, almost imperceptible, but Elena felt it. Felt the sharp, quiet certainty in Luca's grip.
"She is exactly where she belongs," Luca said evenly, voice calm but sharp as a blade.
The pressure of his hand increased just slightly—enough for Elena to feel it, enough for the message to be unmistakable. The younger man excused himself quickly, lips tightening, his confidence evaporating under the silent weight of Luca's control.
Elena turned to Luca, eyes flashing. "Was that necessary?"
Luca didn't look at her. His gaze followed the retreating figure like a predator marking prey. "Yes."
"I can handle a conversation," she said, a mixture of irritation and amusement in her voice.
"I know," Luca replied. "That's what concerns me."
She stiffened. "You don't get to—"
"I don't get jealous," Luca cut in quietly. The words were flat, unflinching, and Elena caught the tension in his jaw that betrayed him. The lie tasted bitter, sharp against the truth they both knew.
They moved away from the crowd, into a shadowed corridor lined with marble and echoes. The soft light caught Luca's profile, angular and deliberate, and the faint glint in his eyes unsettled her more than any threat from a stranger could.
"You marked me," Elena said, voice low, controlled. "Publicly."
"You were already marked," Luca replied, eyes steady.
"I'm not territory."
"No," he said finally, turning to her, his voice softer but unyielding. "You're leverage."
That hurt more than she expected.
"And yet," she whispered, "your hand shook."
A pause.
Just long enough.
"I don't tolerate threats," Luca said finally.
"Was he a threat?" she asked carefully.
"To me?" Luca replied, gaze unwavering. "No."
"To what, then?"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "To the illusion that I don't care who looks at you."
Elena's breath caught.
"That's jealousy," she said softly, teasing, but there was an edge to it.
"No," Luca replied, voice flat and controlled. "That's awareness."
She laughed quietly, bitter and delighted all at once. "You can call it whatever you want. It still bites."
His jaw tightened, an almost imperceptible flex. "Be careful."
"With what?" she challenged.
"With discovering how deep that bite goes."
They stood there, tension coiled tight, dangerous, unspoken. Elena could feel it threading between them, like a live wire she wanted to reach for and feared touching. Luca stepped back first, reasserting control, a ruler reclaiming his posture, but the moment had already shifted something fundamental.
"Stay close," he ordered, voice low, deliberate. "Not because you need protection."
"Then why?" she asked, lips curving slightly.
"Because I do," he admitted.
The words lingered long after the night ended, echoing in the spaces between them. Jealousy hadn't roared. It hadn't erupted in violence or fury. It had crept in quietly, silent, insidious. A reminder that even the strongest, most controlled man could falter in ways unseen.
And neither of them was bleeding yet.
But they would be.
Because this bite soft, sharp, and undeniable was only the beginning.