The mansion felt different that evening. The quiet was heavier, thicker, as though the walls themselves were aware of what was about to happen. I could sense it the moment I stepped into the private wing-an electric pulse that seemed to hum through the marble floors, the chandeliers, the very air around me.
Luciano was already there. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights reflecting off his sharp features, he looked more imposing than ever. The kind of man who didn't just occupy space but owned it, dominated it, carved it into his will. And yet... tonight, there was something different in his gaze.
Something warmer.
Something... dangerous.
I tried to maintain my posture, the careful, straight-backed defiance I had relied on since the day he claimed me. But he didn't just see me anymore. Not as property. Not as collateral. He was seeing me differently. Seeing the curves of my body, the subtle sway of my movement, the way my hair caught the light.
"You're walking differently," he said, voice low, smooth, but threaded with tension. "Every step. Every motion. Do you realize how much I notice?"
I froze.
"I... I'm not..." I began, but he cut me off with a dark, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
"Don't lie to me," he murmured. "I've been watching you for weeks. Every glance, every subtle act of defiance. And today, you've moved in ways that make me-" He paused, jaw tightening, "...question how I've been controlling myself."
The words left me shivering. Not with fear, not entirely. Something deeper. Something hotter. Something I didn't expect.
He stepped closer, just enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. My pulse thundered in my ears. My fingers twitched, itching to brush against him, though I knew better. One wrong move could destroy the fragile control we both pretended to have.
"Why are you doing this?" I whispered, almost breathless. "Why are you... noticing me like this?"
"Because," he said, voice dropping lower, rougher, almost a growl, "you are beautiful. More than I should allow myself to admit. And I... I can't stop seeing it."
I wanted to protest. Wanted to tell him he was dangerous. That this was impossible. That nothing about this was safe. But every word caught in my throat, because I was already feeling it. That dangerous pull. That magnetic draw toward him that defied reason.
His eyes darkened as he closed another step, just short of touching me. The tension between us was unbearable, palpable, like a live wire sparking in the air. I could smell him-leather, cologne, power-and it made my body betray me, heat blooming in places I couldn't admit.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, and I felt it, deep in my chest, twisting me. "Every glance. Every defiance. Every tiny act of bravery. It makes me... want things I can't allow myself to want."
I shivered, not from cold. From need. From the dangerous thrill of having someone like him-him-want me in ways I couldn't name.
"You shouldn't," I whispered.
"I know," he said, almost painfully, softly. "...And yet, I can't stop."
He leaned closer, and the air between us grew thick. So thick it pressed against my skin, made it impossible to breathe normally. Our faces were inches apart, the almost-kiss hanging between us like a promise and a threat all at once. I could feel his heartbeat against mine, steady and dangerous, commanding and intoxicating.
"I shouldn't be doing this," he said again, just a whisper, his lips near enough to graze mine if he chose. "But I..." His hand hovered near my shoulder, fingers brushing lightly against my skin. "I want to taste the rebellion in your blood, the fire behind those eyes, the way you refuse to bend fully."
Heat bloomed in my chest. I wanted to pull away, wanted to assert control, wanted to keep my defiance. And yet, part of me ached to lean into him, to let the danger wrap around me, to see just how far this magnetic pull could go.
He studied me, lips parted slightly, gaze dark and intense. "Do you feel it?" he asked. "This... tension? The way we're standing on the edge of something neither of us can control?"
I nodded slightly, my own voice failing me. Heat pooled dangerously low, making my hands tremble despite my best efforts to remain calm.
"You don't understand what you do to me," he said. "Every step outside my rules, every defiance, every glance-every inch you exist independently-it makes me lose control. And I... I'm not used to losing control."
I could feel the truth of it. I had wanted to be defiant, to assert myself, to show that I wasn't just collateral. But under his gaze, under the weight of his proximity, under the tension that thrummed between us, defiance became a different kind of surrender.
One that was dangerous. One that was intoxicating. One that made me ache in ways I hadn't known I could feel.
He leaned even closer, so close I could feel his breath on my cheek. One hand brushed along my arm-light, tentative, but claiming. My body betrayed me, warmth pooling in places I hadn't allowed anyone to touch. I couldn't breathe properly, couldn't speak properly. My pulse raced, blood pounding in my ears.
"I shouldn't," he murmured again, lips almost grazing mine. "...But I want you."
Every word, every whisper, every subtle movement sent shivers down my spine. It was intoxicating. Terrifying. Dangerous.
I could feel the almost-kiss stretching between us like a taut wire, electric, threatening to snap at any second. Every second of delay, every pause, made the tension hotter, more unbearable, more... intimate.
I realized then, fully, that Luciano De Luca was falling for me without realizing it. And I was falling for him.
Not for the man who ruled with fear, control, and obsession. Not for the mafia king who claimed my life and body.
For the man standing inches away from me, lips so close I could feel the heat, eyes so dark they consumed everything.
I wanted him.
And the thought terrified me more than the world outside the mansion ever could.
That night, alone in my room, the memory of him lingered. Every glance, every word, every teasing brush of his hand.
I realized something that made my stomach clench: the defiance I had clung to, the careful independence I had preserved, was meaningless here.
Luciano had already claimed me-not fully, not physically, but in ways that made me ache and burn and tremble.
And the sexual tension-the heat, the almost-touch, the unspoken desire-was only the beginning.