The mafia's king bride claimed by his obsession.

The mark on my neck was still there when I woke up a faint, rose-colored stain just below my ear.

I touched it in the mirror, remembering his mouth, the scrape of his teeth. My skin still felt hot from it.

Damon was already gone. He'd left a note on his pillow, sharp handwriting on thick paper:

Wear something that covers it.

D

Not a suggestion. A command.

I picked a high-necked black dress. It felt like I was mourning something.

He waited in the dining room, reading a tablet with coffee steaming beside him. He didn't even look up. "Sit."

I sat down. Alessandra set a plate of eggs in front of me. I didn't want them.

"You have an appointment today," he said, eyes on the screen.

"What kind of appointment?"

"A doctor. Full exam."

My hand froze, fork halfway to my mouth. "Why?"

Finally, he looked at me. His eyes were flat, all business. "You live in my house. You eat my food. Your health is my asset's health. Standard procedure."

Asset. I set the fork down. "I don't want some stranger..."

"It isn't up for debate." He pushed the tablet away. "Marco will drive you. He'll wait in the room."

Humiliation burned. "He's going to watch?"

"He'll stand by the door. He's seen worse." Damon stood up, fixing his cufflinks. "Don't do anything stupid while you're out. The doctor works for me. The clinic's mine. Hell, the street's mine."

He walked out. Didn't say another word.

The clinic was spotless, cold, and private. A female doctor with gentle hands and a practiced smile did the exam. Marco stood by the door, silent, massive, back to us.

"Everything looks perfectly healthy," the doctor said, scribbling on a chart. "Any concerns? Painful periods? Sex?"

I flushed. "No. No activity."

She nodded, and wrote it down. "We'll draw blood for the usual panels. You can get dressed."

As I pulled my dress back on, I spotted the chart on the counter. The name at the top wasn't Elena Rossi.

It read: ROSSI, E. ASSET #7.

A number. That's all I was.

Marco drove me back in silence. The city blurred past, people moving through their lives, free, while I sat trapped in a luxury prison.

We were nearly home when I saw him.

On the corner, outside that old bookstore café, leaning against a lamppost, phone in hand.

Lucas.

My heart was hammered. He looked exactly the same soft, warm, nothing like the world I lived in now.

"Stop the car," I whispered.

Marco caught my eyes in the mirror. "No."

"Please. Just a minute. I just want to talk to him."

"Boss's orders. You stay in the car."

"He won't even know!"

Marco's face didn't change. "He always knows."

The car slowed at a red light. We stopped right next to Lucas's corner.

I didn't think so. I grabbed the door handle. Locked. The child lock was on. It didn't budge.

I pounded on the window.

Lucas looked up from his phone. His eyes drifted over the street, skipped past the car then landed on Marco in the front seat. Recognition flashed. The man who'd answered my phone.

"Lucas!" I yelled, even though I knew he couldn't hear.

He stepped closer, frowning.

The light changed. Marco hit the gas. The car lunged forward. I twisted around, watching Lucas break into a run after us, his face twisted with worry and confusion, until he vanished around a corner.

Hot tears ran down my cheeks. Marco didn't say a word.

Damon waited in the foyer when we got back. He didn't need to say a thing I felt the rage rolling off him.

"My study," he said, voice low and sharp. "Now."

Marco disappeared. My legs felt shaky as I followed Damon.

He shut the door behind us. "You tried to see him."

"I just wanted to talk!"

"You screamed his name from my car." He stepped closer. "You made a scene. You got his attention. Mine, too."

"He's my friend!"

"You don't have friends!" he exploded, losing control. He grabbed my arms. "You have me. You have this house. You have the protection I offer with my blood. That boy is a weakness. A target. And you painted a bullseye on his back today!"

He shook me, his face twisted with fury. "Do you know what happens to things I care about? They get used against me. They get taken. They get broken."

The pain in his voice stopped me cold. This wasn't just about owning me. He was scared.

He let me go, raked a hand through his hair, and turned away. His shoulders were tight, braced.

"I won't let you destroy yourself with your sentimentality," he said, voice rough and lower. "Or get him killed because of it."

"Then let me go," I begged, sobbing. "If I'm so dangerous, let me leave."

He turned. The look in his eyes was terrifying utterly certain. "Never."

He crossed the space between us. This time, he didn't grab it. He held my face in his hands, gentle but unyielding. His thumbs brushed away my tears, a cruel kind of tenderness.

"You want to see "What happens when you push me, Elena?" he breathed, so close I could feel the words on my lips. "When you remind me you're not just a chess piece, but the woman I want to ruin for anyone else?"

Then his mouth crashed into mine.

This wasn't a kiss. It was a takeover. Hard and hungry and wild. I gasped, and he took advantage, deepening it, tasting me, stealing my breath and every scrap of willpower. One hand slid from my cheek into my hair, tugging my head back. His other arm locked around my waist, pulling me tight against him.

Thinking? Gone. Fighting? Impossible. He tasted like coffee and fury, and the raw heat of him burned right through me. My bones? Melted. Something hot and reckless sparked low in my belly.

He finally broke the kiss, panting. His eyes God, they were black with want. "You're mine," he growled. "Every part of you."

He kissed me again, gentler this time but still in control. His hands slid down, grabbing my backside, lifting me up. I wrapped my legs around him without even thinking. He carried me to his desk, sent papers and his tablet tumbling to the floor with a crash.

He laid me out on the cold, hard wood. His weight settled between my thighs, heavy and somehow perfect. His mouth left mine, trailed along my jaw, down to the mark on my neck, his tongue soothing and claiming at the same time.

"Damon..." I whimpered, fists tangled in his shirt.

He unzipped my dress, peeling it down to my waist. The rush of cool air prickled my skin, but then came the heat of his gaze. His hand cupped my breast, thumb circling over lace. Pleasure shot through me, sharp and dizzying.

He lowered his head, mouth replacing his hand, sucking through the fabric. I cried out, arching up off the desk.

He looked up, lips wet, eyes locked on mine. "This is what you do to me," he rasped. "You're chaos."

His hand slid between us, fingers slipping under the waistband of my panties. I went still, every muscle tight.

He noticed. Froze, too.

For a long moment, he just stared at me, chest heaving, his hand burning hot against my skin. I could see the battle in his eyes possession fighting with restraint, hunger snarling at his own rules.

He cursed, rough and low, and pulled his hand away. Rested his forehead against mine, breath hot and uneven.

"Not like this," he muttered, maybe to me, maybe just to himself.

He pushed off the desk, leaving me there, exposed, aching. He turned away, fixing his clothes, his back shutting me out.

"Get dressed," he said, cold as ever. "Dinner's in an hour. Don't be late."

Then he was gone, leaving me sprawled across his desk, body throbbing, mind a mess.

The rules had shifted. I'd seen his hunger.

And I'd just stumbled onto my own.