Chapter 5: You are Mine

Riella’s POV

I got back to the mansion and went straight to my room. I shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the floor. The funeral dirt was still on my shoes. The smell of roses and wet earth still clung to my dress. I pulled the old bag from under the bed and set it on the covers.

Tomorrow. First thing.

I would take what little I had and go. There was nothing for me in this house. No mother. No safety. Only Lorenzo and the way he looked at me like I was something he already owned.

Hours later, when the mansion had gone quiet, I couldn’t sit still anymore. 

I found one of the maids in the hall. She looked at me with a scowl, like I had no right to ask her anything.

“Where is Lorenzo?”

“Don Lorenzo is in his bedroom,” she said, voice flat. Then she walked off without waiting to see if I needed anything else.

Even the maids looked down on me.

I walked to his door and knocked.

“Come in.”

His voice was rough. Tired. Mean.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He was sitting in a large chair near the window, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside him, a cigarette in one hand. Smoke curled toward the ceiling. He had taken off his suit jacket. His black shirt had a few buttons open, showing his bronze, hard chest. The gold chain around his neck caught the low light and rested against warm skin. He looked dangerous even sitting still.

His eyes lifted to me. Hard and cold.

“What the fuck do you want, Rielle?”

The room smelled like whiskey and smoke. My pulse was already too fast. The carpet was soft under my shoes. The door clicked shut behind me and the sound felt too loud.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

He stared at me for a second. Then he laughed. Dark. Quiet. Ugly.

“No, you’re not.” He picked up the glass, took a sip, and looked at me over the rim. “I’m your legal guardian now. That means you belong to me.”

“I’m twenty-one. I don’t need a legal guardian.”

He laughed again, lower this time. The sound made my stomach twist. He tapped ash into a tray without looking away from me.

“This is my city. I own the law here. The courts. The cops. The paper with your name on it. And my law says I own you.”

I glared at him. “You must be fucking joking.”

He set the glass down, stubbed off the cigarette and stood.

The chair creaked. He walked closer until we were face to face. Or rather, face to chest. I had to tip my head back to keep looking at him. Heat came off his body. He smelled like whiskey and his stupid cologne. 

“Why do you want to leave?” he asked, mocking, like the answer already amused him. “You think the world outside these gates is waiting for you with open arms?”

I opened my mouth.

He didn’t let me speak.

“You want to leave so you can go become a whore,” he said. “That’s what you people do when the money dries up, isn’t it? Run back to the streets and open your legs for whoever pays. Your mother did it. Don’t stand here and act like you’re better than the life that fed you.”

My hand shot out before I thought.

I slapped him hard.

The crack filled the room. My palm burned. His face barely moved. His head turned only a little, like I had tapped him, not hit him. Smoke drifted past my cheek. Then he smiled. Cruel. Slow. His eyes dropped to my mouth.

“Hit me again,” he said. “It makes me hard.”

I stared at him, breath shaking. “You’re sick.”

“And you’re dripping for it.” His voice dropped. “Don’t look at me like that. I know that face. I saw it in the hallway when I had my hand on your throat. You get wet when I’m cruel to you. That’s your sickness, little sister. Not mine.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why? It bothers you?” He leaned closer. The cigarette glowed. “Or does it make your cunt clench?”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the idea.”

In a blink, his hand caught my waist and yanked me against him. 

My body hit his chest. I felt the heat of his bare skin through my dress. I felt how hard he was against my stomach, thick and shameless. His mouth crushed onto mine.

The kiss was not gentle. It was not asking. He tasted like whiskey and sin, hot and bitter, and his grip on my waist was tight enough to bruise. His other hand slid up and fisted in my hair, pulling my head back so he could take my mouth the way he wanted. His tongue pushed in. I made a small, angry sound against his lips.

I shoved at his chest and tore my mouth away, breathing hard.

“Don’t touch me.”

I slapped him again.

This time, his hand closed around my throat.

And he kissed me again, harder, like it was a punishment. Like it was war.

I fought him with my mouth. Teeth. Breath. Anger. I bit his lower lip. He groaned, low and filthy, and kissed me deeper for it. I kissed him back because I refused to just stand there and take it. I hated how that made the kiss wetter. I hated how my hands grabbed his open shirt instead of pushing him off. My fingers touched warm bronze skin. His chain brushed my collarbone.

His thigh pushed between my legs. The pressure made my breath break. His mouth left mine and dragged down my jaw, then to my ear.

“Say you don’t want this,” he muttered into my ear. “Lie to me. I want to hear how pretty you sound when you lie.”

“I don’t want you.”

He bit my ear lightly and smiled.

“Then why are you holding my shirt? Why is your body shaking with want?”

“Because I hate you.”

“Good.” His mouth came back to mine. “Hate me while I kiss you. Hate me while you get wet. Hate me while I decide whether to fuck you on that bed or against that door.”