Betrayed, Then Claimed by the Mafia King (18+)

Lyla Rose ________ I grip his shoulders, trying to steady myself as the lingering effects of the drug make my body feel weak. The world around me feels hazy, and I can't find the strength to fight back. I should protest, I know, but my heart still aches too much, and deep down, there's a part of me that's just grateful Carter brought me here, away from that hell. His gaze softens just a little, though his grip on me remains firm. "Stop moving before I do something we'll both regret," he says, his voice low and dangerous, like a warning. "You're in no state to fight me right now." I don't reply, my body trembling as I try to regain some composure. The words linger, but I can't muster the energy to argue. So, I relent, finally resting my head on his chest, my body exhausted, my mind foggy. "Thank you for taking me away from there..." My voice cracks, heartbroken. "They were going to lock me up in the basement." His expression softens, and his hand comes up to cup my cheek gently. "I would burn down that whole fucking palace before I let them lock you up," he murmurs, his voice thick with protectiveness. His thumb brushes across my bottom lip with an almost tender touch. "You're too precious to be kept in a cage." I blink up at him, confusion swirling inside me, but the exhaustion weighs heavily on my chest. I'm too tired to question him, too worn out to try and understand why he's saying any of this. At least someone thinks differently. At least someone cares. He shifts, pulling me more securely against him, and leans back against the headboard. His phone buzzes, but he ignores it, his focus solely on me. "You're hungry?" he asks quietly, his thumb still tracing my lips gently. The scent of expensive cigars and leather surrounds me, mixing with the strange calm that has settled between us. "Tell me what you want, and I'll have it sent up." "Anything... I'll eat anything," I whisper weakly, my voice barely audible as I sit in his lap, the dizziness still clouding my thoughts. His jaw tightens at my weak whisper and without hesitation, he presses a button on the bedside phone. "Send up pasta carbonara and tiramisu immediately." His deep voice commands the kitchen staff before hanging up. His hands automatically start rubbing soothing circles on my back, his touch almost calming. "Eat everything," he orders, his voice soft but firm. "I don't feel okay," I whisper, feeling a wave of restlessness churn inside me. I squirm slightly, trying to adjust myself, but everything feels off, like I can't find comfort anywhere. His hands tighten around my hips, stopping my restless movement. "Rose," he says, his tone turning serious and commanding. "You're making me crazy with all this movement. Just sit still for five fucking minutes until the food gets here." There's anger in his voice, but his touch remains gentle, as if trying to soothe me. I whimper, feeling the pressure in my lower abdomen as I shift again, trying to get comfortable, but something hard presses against me. I push him back slightly, squirming in discomfort. His face hardens as I continue to move. "Stop fucking moving," he growls, his hands sliding up to grip my hips firmly, pressing me down harder onto him. "You're not helping the situation," he mutters, his voice low, almost a warning. His face is inches from mine, his breath warm on my skin. "Sit still." I look up at him with hooded eyes, my chest tight, and there's a knock on the door. The staff enters, pushing a trolley with trays of food. His jaw clenches as he keeps his hands firm on my hips to hold me in place. "Leave it on the table," he commands, his voice unwavering. "And get out." The staff quickly obey, setting the food down and closing the door behind them. I feel sick, a wave of nausea rising in my throat. "I feel like throwing up," I whisper weakly, unable to ignore the sudden dizziness that swirls inside me. But he doesn't move, doesn't let go. His eyes remain focused on me. He picks up a glass of cold orange juice and makes me drink it, his touch gentle but firm. I sip slowly, letting the cool liquid settle in my stomach. He doesn't say anything, but his gaze softens as I start to calm down a little. Once I've finished, he gently lifts me off his lap and sets me down on the bed, standing up and grabs a plate of pasta. "Eat," he orders, his tone firm but not unkind. He sits back down beside me with his own plate. "Slowly." I grab the fork, my fingers trembling, struggling to grip the pasta. The effort feels exhausting, my muscles weak, and the simple task seems impossible. He watches me, his brows furrowing in frustration, his eyes hardening. "Let me," he says gruffly, and takes the fork from my trembling hand. Without a word, he begins feeding me, forcing me to eat slowly, carefully. "You're shaking too much," he mutters, his voice softer than before, though there's still an edge to it. I feel strange, the unfamiliar warmth of his hands and the food filling me, but it doesn't feel right. I whimper slightly, the discomfort too much. Despite everything, I manage to take another small bite. He continues feeding me, ignoring my quiet whimpers, his attention fixed on getting food into my mouth. "Drink some more juice," he orders, handing me the glass, his gaze steady, unwavering. "And eat the damn tiramisu. You love it." He sets the plate of dessert in front of me. "How do you know?" I pout and take a small bite of tiramisu. It's rich and sweet, and to my surprise, it actually makes me feel a little better. He smirks slightly, his gaze sharp as he watches me. "I pay attention," he murmurs, his tone almost teasing. He leans in, his eyes dark. "See? I told you it would make you feel better." He reaches forward, his thumb brushing gently over the corner of my mouth where a spot of cream has smeared. "Messy."