His Heart in Ragged Breaths

I'm Ava Callahan, secret lover to New York's Don, Julian Salvatore. For three years, he's never shown me a single moment of tenderness.

His fiancée is my sister, Scarlett. I’m just collateral, abandoned by my own family. At night, he unleashes a savage possessiveness, only to cast me aside with cold indifference when the sun rises.

I was tired of this life. And then, a text arrived from Scarlett—missing for three years—announcing her return.

My family was waiting to watch me get kicked out. But I was secretly thrilled. I could finally be free. To force his hand, I decided to get the mark of a rival family tattooed on my skin—presenting him with proof that I was no longer "pure."

I strode into a tattoo parlor, pointed to a serpentine design—the crest of his rivals—and told the artist, "This one. Put it somewhere he’ll be forced to see it."

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1

Three in the morning.

In the manor's master bedroom, the air was thick with the rich scent of whiskey and sandalwood—the Don’s signature scent, heavy in the afterglow of passion.

I lay limp on the rumpled silk sheets, my body feeling like it had been torn apart and pieced back together. I couldn't even muster the strength to lift a finger.

I glanced at the man whose back was still turned to me, his breathing finally evening out.

Just minutes ago, he had pressed me beneath him, his scorching lips against my ear, growling over and over, "Ava, you're mine… only mine…"

His voice was so raw, it almost made me believe his cold, unfeeling heart might actually beat for me.

And once again, I'd fallen for it.

Maybe it was the hormones clouding my judgment, but as I gazed at his broad back, a strange urge took hold of me—to trace the line of his spine as he breathed. I even found myself craving an embrace, if only for a second.

"Julian, I—"

But before my fingertips could even brush his skin, the mattress beside me lightened.

Julian Salvatore rose from the bed. No tenderness, no hug, not even a word.

In the dim glow of the wall sconce, I watched his broad shoulders and lean waist as he walked away. Across his back were the crimson marks I'd left in a moment of lost control.

He cast a cold glance at my hand, still awkwardly suspended in mid-air.

In that instant, my heart plummeted.

I’d once naively asked him if he meant the things he whispered in the dark.

He'd scoffed. "Ava, don't take pillow talk seriously. It's just a man's primal instinct."

The sound of his belt buckling pulled me back to reality. The crisp, cold click felt like the final sound of a transaction.

"Go back to your room," Julian said without turning around. His hoarse voice held an authority that permitted no argument. "Don't sleep here."

He said it again. The same words for over a thousand nights.

No matter how frenzied our passion, the moment it ended, his coldness returned.

It was as if he despised my very presence in his space. Once he was sated, he wanted me gone.

Gritting my teeth against the ache in my lower back, I lowered my eyes, hiding the spark of hope that had been ignited only to be brutally extinguished.

I never learned.

I snatched the torn silk robe from the floor, wrapped it around myself, and silently left the room that reeked of his possession.

The door clicked shut behind me.

What I didn't see was the moment the door clicked shut, the famously composed Don collapsed onto the pillow I’d just left, burying his face in the silk to greedily inhale my lingering scent.