The Mark of Ownership

Isabella paced the confines of her room, her thoughts swirling like a storm. The ornate decor, though luxurious, now felt like a gilded cage. The walls seemed to close in with every passing moment, suffocating her under the weight of her captivity.

She had told herself that this was temporary, that she would endure it for Mateo. But it was getting harder to keep her focus solely on her brother when Lorenzo’s dark presence loomed over her every thought.

I hate him, she thought bitterly. I hate what he represents, the way he speaks to me, the way he looks at me…

A sharp knock jarred her from her turbulent thoughts.

“Elena?” she called hesitantly.

Thinking it was her .

The door opened, but instead of the warm, comforting face of the housekeeper, Lorenzo strode in with the confidence of a man who feared nothing and owned everything.

“You have no concept of privacy, do you?” Isabella snapped, folding her arms tightly across her chest as if to shield herself from him.

His lips curved into a faint smirk, an expression that only heightened her irritation. “Privacy doesn’t exist between us, mi ángel.”

Her breath hitched at the name. He’d called her that before, and each time, it struck a nerve she didn’t understand.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed, her voice sharp but faltering slightly under his intense gaze.

“And I told you,” he said, his voice dropping into that dangerously low timbre that both infuriated and unsettled her, “I will call you whatever I wish. Do not mistake this for a negotiation.”

He took a step closer, and Isabella instinctively stepped back, only to bump into the edge of the bed.

The Power Play .

“What do you want?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady despite the rapid beating of her heart.

Lorenzo tilted his head, his dark eyes scanning her as if she were a puzzle he was determined to solve. “You.”

The word was a statement, not a request, delivered with the unshakable confidence of a man who always got what he wanted.

“You can’t have me,” she said through gritted teeth, her fists clenching at her sides.

A deep, low laugh rumbled from his chest, the sound sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine. “Oh, mi ángel, you still don’t understand, do you? You’re already mine.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, he closed the distance between them in one swift, deliberate movement. His hand cupped her chin, tilting her face upward so their eyes locked.

“You think this is about control?” he murmured, his voice as smooth and lethal as a blade. “About possession? No. It’s about trust. And until you learn to trust me, I will remind you every day that you belong to me.”

Her pulse raced wildly, and she hated the way his touch—his words—made her feel. She hated the defiance rising in her chest and the forbidden thrill that ran alongside it.

“I’ll never trust you,” she whispered, her voice trembling but firm.

His smirk widened, his thumb brushing her jawline before he released her. “Then we have a long year ahead of us.”

The Branding Party

Before she could recover, Lorenzo turned away and walked toward the door.

“Get dressed,” he commanded without looking back. “We’re leaving in an hour.”

“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

“You’ll see.”

An hour later, Isabella found herself in the back of Lorenzo’s sleek black car, seated uncomfortably close to him. His presence filled the confined space, and the silence between them was deafening.

“Are you always this cryptic?” she asked, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice.

“Are you always this curious?” he countered, his tone laced with amusement.

She huffed and turned to look out the window. The city lights blurred past, but they offered no comfort, no escape.

When the car finally pulled up to a sprawling villa, the low thrum of music and laughter greeted them. Isabella hesitated as Lorenzo opened her door, his hand extended toward her.

“Don’t make me wait,” he said, his tone carrying a warning.

She took his hand reluctantly, allowing him to lead her inside. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of expensive liquor. The room was filled with people—dangerous, powerful-looking men and women whose gazes followed Lorenzo with a mix of respect and fear.

“Why are we here?” Isabella whispered, her voice barely audible above the noise.

“Tonight, they’ll see you,” he said simply.

“See me?”

“As mine.”

Before she could protest, Lorenzo led her to the center of the room, where a table draped in black velvet held a small box.

“What is this?” she asked, her unease growing with each passing second.

“A tradition,” he replied. “A symbol of trust and loyalty in my world.”

He opened the box, revealing an intricate gold bracelet. The design was stunning, delicate yet commanding—just like her.

“I’m not wearing that,” she said firmly.

“Yes, you are.”

Isabella took a step back, but Lorenzo’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist. His touch was firm, unyielding, yet not painful.

“You don’t have a choice,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

The room had gone silent, every pair of eyes watching them. She felt trapped, humiliated, and defiant all at once.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice trembling with suppressed anger. “Why do you need to do this?”

“Because the world needs to know you’re under my protection,” he said, his gaze burning into hers. “And because I want them to know you’re mine.”

His words hit her like a blow, stealing the air from her lungs. Reluctantly, she held out her wrist, her hand trembling as he clasped the bracelet around it. The metal was warm against her skin, and it felt heavier than it looked.

“Smile, mi ángel,” he murmured, his voice laced with dark amusement. “They’re watching.”

She forced a smile, but her eyes blazed with anger.

The Aftermath

The evening passed in a blur of introductions and veiled threats. Lorenzo kept her close, his hand on her lower back a constant reminder of his claim. She hated the way the others looked at her—as if she were some prized possession on display.

By the time they returned to the estate, Isabella was exhausted, her emotions raw and tangled.

“You humiliated me,” she accused as soon as they were alone.

“No,” he corrected, his tone calm and measured. “I protected you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” she snapped.

“Yes, you do,” he said, stepping closer. His fingers brushed her cheek, and she flinched, not from fear but from the intensity of the moment.

“And whether you want to admit it or not, mi ángel, you need me.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t back away.

“Goodnight,” he murmured, his lips brushing her forehead in a gesture that was both possessive and tender.

Isabella stood frozen as he walked away, leaving her alone with the weight of his words—and the heavy gold bracelet that now marked her as his.