Eloise didn't remember following Ian up the last flight of stairs. Her body moved like it no longer belonged to her, carried forward by invisible strings Luciano had wrapped around her earlier with nothing but a smile, a chilling ultimatum, and the lingering, electric ghost of his teeth on her ear. She was operating purely on instinct and shock.
The faint sting of that bite still pulsed—sharp, electric, almost hallucinatory—like a second, terrified heartbeat throbbing against her jaw. The memory of the violation, the absolute and terrifying intimacy of the display of dominance, was inescapable.
The hallway stretched before her, mercifully warm in a way the cavernous foyer downstairs hadn't been. It smelled faintly of sweet citrus and something darker, smoky, expensively rugged—a scent she was beginning to recognize as singularly him. Always him, a signature invading even the places he wasn't physically standing.
The sconces lining the corridor glowed a soft, molten gold, the light refracting off the walls, crafted in the elaborate shape of frozen flames—an unsettling motif that felt entirely appropriate for a girl who had burned down an estate.
Paintings watched her with quiet, aristocratic judgment as Ian, silent and efficient, led her to the massive double doors at the far end of the corridor. The doors were tall, carved, and utterly forbidding.
Her bare feet nearly slipped on the highly polished marble floor, reminding her that she was still dressed in the clothes she'd been captured in.
Ian paused before the double doors, taking a moment to subtly adjust his lapel. Then he opened the doors, revealing the chamber beyond.
The room hit her like a sudden, unexpected sunrise after a lifetime spent stumbling in the dark.
The coldness that defined the rest of the mansion was absent here. Soft colors—warm blush, muted champagne, creamy ivory—washed over her in waves. No sharp lines dominated the space.
No intimidating, clinical steel. Everything was gentle, curated, painfully beautiful, designed to dismantle her defenses.
A massive Queen-sized canopy bed dominated the space, draped in translucent white veils that whispered with a delicate silk-on-silk sound whenever the air shifted.
The duvet was cloud-soft, layered with textures she recognized only from the untouched pages of luxury interior design magazines she'd never dreamed of affording.
Piles of pale, enormous pillows had been arranged with obsessive, precision, like the waiting nest of someone determined to make her both comfortable, cherished.
Or contained.
Across from the bed stood a balcony framed by long, sheer curtains. A soft, clean breeze moved through them, offering a glimpse of sunlit gardens below—lilies, roses, white hydrangeas glowing like a sea of frosted light in the afternoon sun.
It was the bedroom of a cherished woman, the intimate, private space of a lover.
Not a captive, a criminal, or a pawn.
And Eloise hated how badly she wanted to crawl into that bed and disappear forever, to let the softness consume the terror.
Ian cleared his throat, the small sound loud in the expensive hush, as if afraid of disturbing the spell of quiet luxury.
"Mr. De La Vega had it redecorated yesterday," he said, his tone perfectly flat, professional. "He felt the previous palette was… inhospitable."
He said it with the calm reverence of a man reciting scripture.
Eloise's voice cracked, raw from crying and shock. "He kidnapped me and gave me a princess room. Is that supposed to make me feel better about the thirty-year prison sentence I just avoided?"
Ian's mouth twitched—a fleeting shadow of what might have been a smile, quickly repressed.
"Mr. De La Vega is… complicated, Miss Winters."
She wanted to laugh—the hysterical, broken kind of laughter. Or scream, or both simultaneously.
Ian gestured toward an archway across the room.
"The master bathroom is through there. The closet is fully stocked. Sizes are exact."
He paused, letting his gaze meet hers, and then added quietly, a cold drop of reality into the velvet luxury,
"He doesn't guess, Miss Winters. He measures. Every aspect of your person has been accounted for."
Her stomach twisted with profound discomfort.
"What happens," she whispered, her gaze flickering toward the inviting, sun-drenched balcony, "if I… try to leave?" Though she knew the answer.
Ian met her gaze without flinching, yet there was something almost kind—or perhaps merely weary—in his eyes.
"I suggest you don't," he said softly, a genuine word of advice. " You won't get farther than the edge of the flower garden. And then, Miss Winters, he will carry you back himself."
A deeper, colder shiver ran down her spine, chilling her to the marrow. The threat was not the guards; the threat was the man himself.
"He is patient about many things—business, strategy, waiting out his enemies," Ian concluded, his voice barely above a whisper. "But he is not patient about you."
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click, the sound of her last chance for freedom evaporating into the silk-draped room.
The instant she was alone, Eloise's knees buckled. She didn't fall entirely, catching herself against the nearest velvet chaise lounge. Her breath came in ragged, painful gasps.
A moment later, Ian returned silently. He placed a tray on the small table near the balcony doors—warm, comforting pasta, grilled chicken, a selection of fresh fruit, and a glass of chilled water. A silent, non-negotiable command for her to nourish herself.
She ate all of it, driven by the sheer, primal necessity of fueling her panicked body.
What? Don't be judgmental. Even crying requires energy—and a little style.
After the food was gone, her body folded in on itself as she crawled toward the bed, the soft, thick ivory carpet swallowing her movements. Tears poured from her like a broken dam—raw, silent, violent. The kind of crying that tore something loose and essential inside her.
She cried until her ribs screamed with the effort.
Until the pale pillows beneath her face were soaked through. She lost track of time, consumed by the primal, self-pitying horror of her situation. She was too exhausted to judge herself for the tears.
At some point, exhaustion grabbed her by the throat and pulled her under. She fell asleep curled against a pile of pillows, one of which smelled faintly but distinctly of Luciano's cologne and the crisp, cold air that clung to him.
When she woke, the world felt bruised. The light filtering through the sheer curtains was dimmer, hinting at the approaching evening.
Her throat burned from crying, and her skin felt stiff with dried salt.
She dragged herself toward the bathroom, not because she wanted to be clean, but because she couldn't stand the feeling of salt on her cheeks anymore. She needed the sting of water to remind her she was still real.
The bathroom was a sanctuary of soft gold lighting, vast mirrors, and marble floors that were warm beneath her feet. A rainfall shower that misted the room like a high-end spa offered an escape. She stepped under the water and let it pour over her head and shoulders, turning her tears into something anonymous and cleansing.
She stayed there until her fingertips pruned, chasing the last vestiges of panic away.
When she finally emerged, wrapped in a thick, waffle-weave towel so soft it felt like stolen luxury, she walked toward the closet.
The doors were taller than she was, carved in pale wood with delicate metallic vines curling across the panels, blending the feminine with the formidable. Inside—
she stopped breathing.
Rows upon rows of dresses waited for her like captive brides. Silk. Cashmere. Satin. Chiffon. Materials she had only dreamed of touching.
Every shade was soft, romantic, angelic. Muted rose, powder blue, pale lavender. Colors chosen not only to excite, but to make her look breakable, innocent, and pure. Nothing harsh, nothing demanding.
They were all her exact size.
Exactly her shape.
Like Luciano hadn't just measured her for clothes, but had studied her body the way a general studies the topography of his enemy's homeland.
The ivory dress waited on a single hanger, isolated, clearly designated for the evening.
Off-the-shoulder.
Backless.
A fluid length of silk that looked simultaneously innocent and sinful, designed to expose without being overtly sexual.
It felt like wearing a warning.
Her hands trembled as she slipped into it. The fabric was exquisitely cool against her skin.
The fabric hugged her waist, her hips, her breasts—smooth as a second skin. It cinched and draped in all the right places, shaping her into some softer, sweeter, more malleable version of herself.
When she looked in the full-length mirror…
she didn't recognize the woman staring back.
This woman looked delicate.
Desired.
Owned.
It terrified her.
At 7:58 PM, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs, she made her way downstairs barefoot—the heels she had seen arranged in the closet left abandoned because every pair felt like shackles and she couldn't bring herself to put them on.
Luciano was waiting at the foot of the grand staircase.
He'd changed too.
Black suit. Impeccably tailored, of course. No tie.
The top two buttons of his dress shirt undone, revealing the sharp edge of his collarbone and a hint of the corded muscle beneath—a casualness that was more threatening than formality.
His platinum-blonde hair was pushed back casually, but everything else about him—the way he stood, the stillness of his hands—radiated terrifying intention.
The fox sat patiently at his side, like a white shadow, pristine and regal, its silver eyes studying her like she was a curiosity that had just wandered into its kingdom.
Luciano looked her over slowly—his eyes moving from the soft silk neckline, down the length of the dress, over her bare, clean arms, and back up to her face—
as if tasting her with his eyes.
"You wore it," he murmured, the deep satisfaction curling through his voice like smoke, rich and velvety. "And you're right on time."
"You said not to be late," she replied, proud her voice didn't crack, her dignity the only thing she had left to cling to.
He took a controlled step toward her, taking her in fully, from the silk clinging to her hips to the tense set of her jaw and her slightly swollen eyes.
Then his gaze drifted downward, stopping pointedly at her bare feet on the marble.
"Of course," he murmured softly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips, as if he'd expected this last, small act of defiance.
Without looking away from her eyes, he reached to the side and picked up a pair of flat shoes—delicate, ivory satin, utterly matching the dress.
Her breath caught.
He knelt—knelt—in front of her, the king of the mansion, humbling himself physically to his captive. He was still the most intimidating man in the room, even bent at the knee.
He took her foot in his hand and slipped the flats onto her feet with slow, deliberate care.
Then he stood, rising back to his full, formidable height, and offered his arm.
She stared at the extended sleeve of black wool like it might bite. She remembered the sensation of his teeth too clearly.
The fox made a soft, impatient rumble, a small auditory cue demanding compliance.
She placed her fingers lightly, tentatively on Luciano's sleeve.
The contact burned her more than the shower's hottest water ever had. She felt the electric jolt travel up her arm and settle in the pit of her stomach.
Luciano's eyes sharpened as if he felt the same immediate, invasive flame. His smile returned, more confident now.
"Good girl," he murmured, the words hitting her like a whip, laced with possessive approval.
A tremor ran through her—half fear, half something she absolutely refused to name.
He guided her down the corridor, his hand resting lightly on the back of her wrist, each step echoing her surrender, her slow march deeper into his world.
The dining room doors, immense and made of dark oak wood, opened before them, and warmth spilled out—candlelight, spices, rich scents, a table set exquisitely for two.
A private dinner.
A meticulously controlled stage.
A trap woven with luxury and terrifying restraint.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.
Luciano leaned close, his lips brushing the delicate shell of her ear—the exact spot he had bitten hours earlier.
"You look," he whispered, his voice dark and deep, "lovely tonight, Paloma."
Her knees nearly gave out beneath her.