Chapter 8

The Rules

Morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the penthouse in soft gold. Elena woke with a start, her body tangled in silk sheets damp from restless dreams. The ache between her thighs hadn’t faded. If anything, it had deepened. She sat up slowly, pressing her thighs together, and cursed under her breath. The memory of Sandro’s tattooed forearms and the graze of his fingers on her back refused to leave her alone.

A soft knock sounded at her door.

“Breakfast in twenty minutes,” a female voice called. Probably one of the discreet staff members who moved like ghosts through the penthouse. “Mr. Rossi is waiting.”

Elena showered quickly, the hot water doing little to calm her nerves. She chose a simple cream-colored dress from the closet, modest but elegant, with a fitted bodice and a skirt that fell just above her knees. No underwear had been provided that felt safe enough; she went without, another small rebellion that made her feel strangely powerful.

When she entered the dining area, Sandro was already seated at the head of a long glass table. He looked impeccable in a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled once again to reveal those dark tattoos. Sunlight caught the ink, making it impossible for her to ignore. A single black folder lay beside his plate.

“Sit,” he said, voice low and even.

Elena hesitated, then chose the chair directly opposite him. The distance felt like armor.

Sandro’s gaze sharpened. “Not there. Closer.”

She lifted her chin. “I’m fine right here.”

A faint smile touched his lips, but it wasn’t warm.

“Rule one, Elena. You sit where I tell you to sit.”

He gestured to the chair on his right, only one seat away. After a beat, she rose and moved, her pulse already quickening. A uniformed attendant served breakfast. Fresh fruit, eggs Benedict, warm pastries, and strong black coffee. The spread smelled divine, but her appetite had vanished.

Sandro slid the black folder across the polished glass toward her.

“Open it.”

She did. Inside was a neatly typed document, at least fifteen pages long. House Rules was printed in elegant serif font at the top.

Elena scanned the first page, her eyes widening.

• Always address him as Sandro in private, Mr. Rossi in company.

• No raised voices. No profanity directed at him.

• Posture: spine straight, shoulders back, legs crossed at the ankle when seated.

• Curfew: inside the penthouse by 10 p.m. unless accompanied.

• Phone and internet use subject to approval and monitoring.

• Physical contact only when initiated by him.

• Disobedience will result in graduated consequences.

The list went on. Clothing choices. Meal times. Permitted areas. Sleeping arrangements subject to change. By the time she reached page five, her hands were trembling with anger.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, flipping another page. “This is insane. I’m not your pet.”

Sandro took a slow sip of his coffee, completely unruffled. “Posture, Elena. Shoulders back.”

She realized she had hunched forward over the document. Straightening instinctively, she hated herself for obeying even that small command.

“Better,” he murmured. “Now eat. You’ll need your strength.”

Elena stabbed a piece of fruit with her fork, but her eyes kept darting back to the rulebook. “You actually expect me to follow all this? Signed and dated like some corporate contract?”

“Yes.” His tone was calm, measured. “This is your life now. The sooner you accept the boundaries, the easier it will be.”

“Easier for who?” she shot back, voice rising. “You? The man who kidnapped me and locked me in a golden tower?”

The attendant discreetly disappeared into the kitchen.

Sandro set his cup down with deliberate care. He turned toward her, one tattooed forearm resting on the table. The calm intensity in his dark eyes made her stomach flip.

“Careful,” he warned softly. “This is the first time you’re testing me inside my home. I suggest you choose your tone more wisely.”

Something about the quiet authority in his voice sent a rush of unwanted heat through her body. She pressed her thighs together under the table, furious at her own reaction. Her nipples tightened against the fabric of her dress.

“I’m not one of your soldiers or your whores,” Elena said, pushing further even as her heart raced. “You can dress this up with rules and fancy breakfasts, but we both know what this is. You bought me. You own me on paper. But you don’t own what’s in here.” She tapped her temple.

Sandro leaned in, close enough that she could smell his cologne, woody, expensive, intoxicating. “You’re right about one thing. I do own you. And the sooner that defiant little mouth of yours learns respect, the better.”

He reached out and calmly took her phone from where she had placed it beside her plate. She hadn’t even realized it was visible.

“Phone privileges revoked for twenty-four hours,” he said flatly. “Consider it your first punishment.”

Elena’s eyes flashed. “You can’t—”

“I can,” he interrupted, voice dropping to that dangerous velvet tone. “And I will. Every time you push, I push back harder. But understand this, Elena…” He tilted her chin up with two fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I don’t enjoy breaking you. I enjoy watching you learn. There’s a difference.”

His touch was firm, warm. The light pressure of his fingers on her chin sent electricity racing down her spine and straight to her core. She was getting wet, embarrassingly so right there at the breakfast table, with no panties to hide it. The worst part was the way his calm dominance affected her. It shouldn’t turn her on. It should terrify her. Instead, it made her want to both slap him and climb into his lap.

She jerked her face away, breathing harder than she wanted to admit.

Sandro released her and leaned back, studying her flushed cheeks and parted lips with obvious satisfaction. “Good. You feel it too.”

“Feel what?” she snapped, though her voice had grown huskier.

“The pull.” He gestured between them. “The part of you that hates me… and the part that wonders what it would feel like if I put you over my knee right now and reminded you exactly who sets the rules.”

Elena’s breath caught. Heat flooded her face. She wanted to deny it, but her body was betraying her completely, tight nipples, slick thighs, racing pulse. She crossed her legs tightly and looked away.

“Eat your breakfast,” he said, almost gently. “Posture straight. Eyes on me when I speak to you.”

She obeyed, hating how natural it felt after only one correction. The eggs tasted like ash, but she forced them down. Every bite, every minute under his watchful gaze, thickened the tension in the air.

When she finally set her fork down, Sandro closed the rulebook and slid it back to her.

“Memorize it. Tonight you’ll recite the first ten rules to me without error. If you succeed…” His eyes darkened with promise. “I’ll consider returning your phone early. If you fail…”

He let the threat hang, unfinished, but the implication was clear.

Elena clutched the folder, her mind spinning with a thousand retorts she didn’t dare voice yet. Part of her wanted to burn the document. Another, darker part, the one still throbbing from his touch, wondered how far he would go to enforce these rules.

She met his eyes across the table, the morning sun casting sharp shadows across his tattooed forearms.

“This isn’t over,” she whispered.

Sandro smiled, a slow, predatory curve of his lips that made her stomach tighten.

“No, Elena,” he replied softly. “It’s only beginning.”