Yasmine POV
I followed Maria quietly downstairs. The mansion was immense, possibly a family villa, yet it radiated warmth and a lived-in elegance. Golden, wrought-iron chandeliers hung above the staircase, spilling light into the living room below. The stair railings, also wrought iron, curved gracefully, complementing the rustic charm of stone walls, terracotta floors, and exposed wooden beams.
The grand stairway opened into vast living spaces with massive fireplaces, arched doorways, and windows of modern glass. Antique furniture and plush sofas were scattered thoughtfully, each piece seeming like it had a story of its own. The place looked like it had been lifted from the pages of a vogue magazine.
Maria led me into a large library, stopping at an ornate desk where Luca was working. He had changed into a loose white shirt and black slacks, relaxed yet still commanding. He glanced up from his laptop, his expression unreadable. Maria whispered something in Italian, her tone curt but respectful, before leaving us alone in the hushed, book-filled room.
Luca rose, circling the desk and gently grabbing my arm. Without a word, he led me to a large screen TV. A click of the remote brought up a live feed of the Bohemian galleries. My heart clenched. Today was the opening of my exhibit. Tears threatened, but I swallowed them, forcing myself to remain composed. I had to remember why I was here—and who had brought me.
Visitors wandered the gallery, clearly captivated by my work. Matt had dedicated the exhibit entirely to my art, featuring the wildflowers collection alongside a retrospective of previous pieces, tracing my growth as an artist. My hands had poured years of effort into this, and yet here I was, bound to this man's whims instead of witnessing it firsthand.
"I thought you might want to see this," Luca said softly, slipping a hand into his pocket with a hesitant precision, as if expecting me to react with gratitude or awe. I didn't. How could I, when my life had been so violently uprooted?
"I should have been there," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and longing. "I worked so hard for that exhibit; why would you just come out of nowhere and make demands?"
Without warning, he wrapped an arm possessively around my waist, crushing me against him. His lips claimed mine in a fierce, breath-stealing kiss. I tried to push him away, my hands pressing against his chest, but his strength was overwhelming. My pulse raced as heat and frustration collided within me. When he finally released me, I gasped for air, my chest heaving, heart pounding.
"I won't apologize for what I did," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, resonating deep within me. "I took what I wanted, what was rightfully mine. You are not my prisoner, Yasmine, not truly. I only desire time—time for us to grow accustomed to each other, to let destiny—or something more—forge a bond between us."
His hand shot up, tugging sharply at my hair. Pain flared, and a stifled cry escaped my lips. His eyes burned with an unwavering intensity.
"I will never let you go," he vowed, his voice a guttural promise. "Not while I draw breath, not while life courses through my veins. Till death do us part…perhaps even beyond."
He bit my lower lip sharply, a sudden sting running through me. My blood ran cold at the intimacy of his possession, a chilling reminder of the darkness that lay ahead, a future inextricably bound to him and his unrelenting desire.
I shivered, caught between fear, anger, and a reluctant, undeniable pull toward him.