Chapter 5

KNOCKING ON MY TEMPER

Marco’s POV

I quickly wrapped the towel tighter around my hips as I yanked the bathroom door open to the master bedroom.

Before she could finish the second knock I rolled the bed room door knob to open it for her.

"Leona," I called her name in a rough tone from the shower and dark thoughts hovering my head.

She stood outside barefoot on the cold marble, with my T-shirt I kept in her wardrobe that she chose to wear that hung halfway to her thighs. Her sexy fair tiles, spotless.

Her hair was still wet from shower. “It’s after two a.m. kitten”

She swallowed, gaze dropping—and damn if she didn’t nail it right on the towel line before jerking back up. Her cheeks went violent pink.

“I—uh—sorry,” she stammered, fingers worrying the hem of her shirt. “I couldn’t sleep. I was… wondering about school. How long I was out. I’m gonna fail finals if I miss more days.”

School. That’s why she risked knocking on my door? Cute.

“You’ve been unconscious for barely thirty hours,” I said. “Not days. Relax.”

Her shoulders sagged. Then straightened. Tiny warrior. “Still. Attendance matters.”

I tilted my head. "You're not going back to where you were, Leona. You're in my world now. And I don't tolerate wasted breath on nonsense."

She blinked at that. Her lip quivered slightly, then steadied. Brave, I’ll give her that.

“You want school?” I asked as I stared now at her small face.

She nodded.

I sighed as I stepped back, motioning her inside. The room still smelled of soap and hot water. I grabbed my phone off the dresser, scrolled to Dario’s number.

"I need my girl registered in the a private school Saint Greco's. I need a new ID under the name Leona Argento. New uniform, books and all schools utensils needed. She starts Monday. Deliver everything by breakfast." I ended the call before the man could stutter yes.

Leona stared in disbelief. "You're changing my identity as well?"

“What?” I snapped.

She opened her mouth—no words. Her gaze dropped again, this time lingering on my torso. The scar on my left rib, the water-drops still crawling down my abs. And lower. The towel didn’t hide the fact I was… stirred.

I raised one eyebrow. “You have something to say?”

She shook her head. But her breathing told on her.

I stepped closer. One more step and her back hit the door. Her pulse leaped in her throat. The towel brushed her knuckles where she had them clenched. She gasped—barely audible, like a kitten squeak.

That sound almost ruined me.

“Say thank you,” I said.

“Thank—” She couldn’t finish. Too busy staring at the ridge of muscle above the towel.

I pressed a palm to the door beside her ear. Leaned. “Kitten you're sure you came to my door at two a.m. because of school?”

She lifted her chin, trying for brave. “Yes.”

"You little liar."

Her lips parted, but nothing.

I gripped her wrist—not rough, just firm—and tugged her across the room. Sat on the edge of the bed, pulled her between my knees. The towel barely hung on. Her eyes tracked the drop of water that slid from my hair down my chest to disappear beneath cotton. Her breath hitched.

“Why are you really here?” I asked.

Silence. The air was thick. My body responded before my mind agreed—heat pooling, towel tenting. I didn’t hide it. I wanted her to see. Wanted her to know the effect she had.

Her eyes widened at the obvious outline, lashes fluttering. She closed them like that might erase the image. It didn’t. Her nipples peaked through the thin shirt. No bra. Hell.

I forced my voice steady. “This house has rules. You knock on my door this late, better be blood or business.”

She whispered, “Maybe… maybe I wanted to say thank you in person.”

“Then say it.”

She stared at my mouth. Whisper-loud: “Thank you.”

I should have let her go. Send her back to bed. Lock my door. Instead I caught her waist, tugged her fraction closer. The warmth of her legs brushed my knees. Her breath smelled like mint tea.

My thumb found the hem of her shirt, slid just far enough to feel bare skin. She shivered, pupils dilating, lips parting.

Control, Marco.

I dropped my hand. She almost whimpered at the loss. Or maybe I imagined that.

“My world isn’t soft,” I said. “You’re here to serve a purpose, not to wander halls and knock on my door when it pleases you.”

Her brow creased. Vulnerable. “I just… I felt safe. For once.”

Safe. The word hammered somewhere behind my ribs.

She looked down then, at the towel. At me straining under it. Brave little idiot.

“Why does it keep moving slowly?” she breathed, barely sound.

Fuck. The question hit like a punch.

"So you have no idea on what's going on there?"

She nodded innocently which made me grin loudly.

This little kitten has no idea about sex. About my world. Interesting.

"This is little Marco. Kitten. Do you want to see it?" I asked tried to tease her and to my surprised she nodded.

My cock lurched. For a half-second I considered letting her. Her small hand wrapping around—No.

I stood. Too fast. She stumbled back, startled.

“Don’t ask that again,” I barked.

Her face went red-hot. Shame, hurt, maybe anger. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice cracking.

I hated myself for the crack.

“This isn’t a game,” I said, keeping distance. “You stay alive because I allow it. Don’t test me.”

She blinked fast, eyes glossy. Then she spun, bolted to the door. Hand on knob, she paused—tiny shoulders trembling.

“I'm sorry Mr. Marco, I didn't mean to ask you,” she confessed, so soft I almost missed it. “I was just curious.”

I touched her half wet her as I looked at her in with a mischievous smile."Don't be always curious, kitten. I won't be so easy on you to let it slide next time."

Then she fled, bare feet slapping marble, door slamming behind her.

I closed my eyes. Fists shaking.

Great. Now I was hard as steel and alone in a room that smelled like her fear and my soap.

I strode to the bar cart, poured scotch, swallowed it neat. Didn’t help.

I needed the girl out of my head. Needed control.

I pulled on sweats, tied them tight. Still half hard. I paced. Glanced at the hallway.

No.

I should punish her for the knock. For seeing me like that. For asking.

Punish. The word pulsed dark and sweet.

But maybe fear wasn’t what she needed. Maybe she’d had enough fear to last a lifetime, given those bruises.

I downed the rest of the scotch. Set the glass down too hard; it cracked.

Idiot.

Phone buzzed—message from my men: Foster father dealt with. Alive, but he’ll rethink breathing.

Good.

I exhaled, tension unclenching just a hair. I stared at the bedroom door.

Tomorrow I’d decide if she deserved a reward… or a consequence.

Tonight I’d dream of her hand finally doing what I wanted her to do.

And I’d hate myself for every second of it.