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Chapter Eighteen - Sleep, Chains, and the Strange Comfort
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2025-12-12 06:02:44Dante fell asleep fast.
Of course he did.
One minute he was lying on his back, the chain between us slack, his breathing already slow and even. The next, he was completely gone—like dragging me to the shower, stripping me of my weapons, and cuffing us together was just another Tuesday night for him.
I lay beside him stiffly, staring up at the ceiling.
I was clean.
He gave me one of his shirts to sleep in.
It hung on me like a dress—soft, worn, smelling like him in a way that made something unwelcome flutter in my chest. It nearly reached my knees and swallowed my hands when I pulled the sleeves down. I should’ve thrown it back in his face.
I didn’t.
I kept replaying the shower in my head.
Not the part where he shoved us inside fully clothed—
Not the part where he threatened to show me “sick and perverted.”
But the moment he picked up the shampoo.
The way his fingers moved through my hair.
Gentle.
Careful.
Almost… afraid he’d break me.
That was the part that stuck under my skin like a splinter I couldn’t remove.
No one had ever touched me like that before.
Slow.
With the kind of reverence people usually reserve for antique glass or something rare.
I hated how it made my chest warm.
I hated that he laughed—not cruelly, but with genuine surprise.
And I hated that I didn’t hate all of it.
The chain between us rattled softly when I shifted. Dante didn’t move. He was sprawled on his back, one arm behind his head, lips parted slightly, dark hair messy and damp from the shower.
He didn’t look like a mafia king.
He looked… human.
Dangerously so.
Stupid.
I rolled onto my side and let my gaze sweep the room, searching for anything—absolutely anything—that could give me leverage.
The nightstand lamp was gone.
Of course it was.
The dresser drawers were shut and probably locked.
No weapons in sight.
No objects heavy enough to bludgeon him, sharp enough to stab him, or tiny enough to pick a lock with.
He’d planned this room.
He’d planned for me.
I tugged lightly on the chain that bound us at the wrist.
Not even a millimeter.
I would feel him move.
Sleeping seemed reckless.
But for the first time since being captured… the idea didn’t feel terrifying.
Exhaustion dragged at my muscles in a way I couldn’t fight anymore. The mattress was warm beneath me. The borrowed shirt was soft against my skin. And Dante’s presence—steady, unmoving—was strangely grounding.
Just for tonight.
Just because I’ll fight harder in the morning.
That’s what I told myself.
The truth?
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel entirely alone.
My eyelids lowered, the room blurring at the edges.
If he tried anything, I’d wake.
If he breathed too loudly, I’d stab him with whatever I could get my hands on.
Probably.
His breathing stayed slow and steady.
The sound lulled me more than I wanted to admit.
Suddenly, sleep didn’t seem like surrender.
It just seemed… inevitable.
I let my eyes close.
The last thing I felt was the warmth of his wrist beside mine, the chain lying loose between us like something unspoken.
Then sleep took me.
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The King’s Wrong Captive Chapter Twenty-Five -
I leave the room before the silence turns into something dangerous.The hallway is still humming with adrenaline when I spot Marco lingering near the stairwell, shoulders tight, eyes darting like he’s already anticipating bad news.“Move her upstairs,” I say, voice flat. “Room next to mine.”Marco blinks. Once. Twice.“You’re—” He swallows. “Boss, you can’t be serious.”I don’t slow down.“She stays under my roof,” I continue. “Constant watch. Full access.”Marco takes a half-step after me. “She’s a Moretti. She broke out twice. She almost killed you. Putting her next to your—”I stop.Not abruptly.Deliberately.The air changes.I turn my head just enough to look at him.Not with anger.Not with rage.With disappointment.“Say it again,” I tell him quietly.Marco stiffens. “I just think—”“That’s the problem,” I cut in softly. “You’re thinking. When I didn’t ask you to.”His throat works as he swallows.Rocco steps forward before he can finish the sentence. “I’ll handle it,” he says
The King’s Wrong Captive Chapter Twenty-Four - The Choice
The phone is still on the table.I don’t look at it again.I don’t need to.Five hundred thousand dollars.My name.My father’s signature written between the lines like a death sentence.The room hums with tension, but inside me something goes very still.I don’t break.I don’t cry.I straighten.Slowly, I lift my eyes to Dante.He’s watching me like he expects me to fold—or explode. Like he’s bracing himself to decide what to do about me.I don’t give him that.“If my father wants me dead,” I say calmly, “then I want his empire.”The words land heavy.Marco inhales sharply behind me. Someone curses under their breath.Dante doesn’t react right away.Good.I step closer to the table, palms braced against the wood.“He doesn’t issue bounties lightly,” I continue. “This isn’t punishment. It’s containment. He thinks I’ve compromised his control.”I look up at Dante, meeting his gaze head-on.“He’s wrong.”Silence.Then Dante says quietly, “You’re asking for war.”“No,” I correct. “I’m of
The King’s Wrong Captive Chapter Twenty-Three - Outlawed
The cameras flickered across the screen in front of me, one feed after another lighting up the darkened strategy room.I wasn’t breathing.I watched Dante move through the compound with lethal calm, weapon in hand, body loose and ready. He didn’t rush. He didn’t hesitate. He went straight toward the west corridor.Straight toward Dale.My father’s favorite.My father’s oldest friend.Dale never failed. He’d always said the job mattered more than the cost. That if it killed him, so be it — the mission would still be finished.That was what made him dangerous.That was what made my father sending him here feel wrong.Until it didn’t.Because there was only one reason Dale would be inside this house.Not for territory.Not for Dante.For me.My father hadn’t just abandoned me.He’d outlawed me.The feed switched just as Dante stepped into the corridor.Dale was already there.Older now. Grayer. But his posture was exactly the same as I remembered — relaxed, patient, like violence was jus
The King’s Wrong Captive Chapter Twenty-Two - The Meeting and the Siren
I didn’t bother unchaining her for the meeting.That alone made my men uneasy.Aria stood at my side in the strategy room, wrists still cuffed, the chain clipped to a heavy ring bolted into the floor beneath the table. She didn’t look restrained. She looked coiled—eyes sharp, posture relaxed, like she was daring someone to underestimate her.The table was already covered in maps, photos, and timelines. Marco, Rocco, and two of my lieutenants stood waiting. Conversation died the second they noticed her.Good.“Sit,” I ordered.They did.I gestured to the maps. “The Sage twins have pushed into Fifth Avenue. We know that. What we don’t know is how they’re staying three steps ahead of us.”Rocco pointed to a marked route. “We think they’re moving product through rotating fronts. Art galleries, pop-up events—”“No,” Aria said calmly.Every head snapped toward her.Marco stiffened. “Boss—”“Let her talk,” I said.She leaned forward as far as the chain allowed, studying the map like it belon
The King’s Wrong Captive Chapter Twenty-One - Photos, Food, and Assets
“Can I see the photos?”The question was casual. Too casual.Like she already knew the answer.I didn’t respond right away. I watched her instead—how she held the fork carefully, how she tried to chew slowly, politely, like she wasn’t starving. Her posture was controlled, but her eyes betrayed her. They flicked to the stack of photos again and again, hunger of a different kind sharpening her focus.Information hunger.That was more dangerous than the other kind.I grabbed three photos off the island and slid them across the counter, setting them just beyond the edge of her plate.“Don’t touch anything else,” I said.She nodded once, already leaning forward.I caught the way her pace changed—how the food became secondary, how she ate faster now, controlled but urgent. I smirked despite myself.Then she froze.Fork paused halfway to her mouth.Her eyes locked on one of the photos.Not the twins’ faces.The wall behind them.“That,” she said quietly.I stilled.She swallowed, set the for
The King’s Wrong Captive Chapter Twenty - Pancakes and New Blood
I chained her to the radiator in the kitchen.Not tight.Not cruel.Just enough.Aria sat on the stool at the counter, wrists cuffed, the chain running down to the old iron radiator along the wall. She tested it once, subtly, then stilled when she realized exactly how much range she had.Smart.She didn’t fight it.She watched.Those eyes followed me as I moved around the kitchen—measuring, cataloging, learning. Like she was sketching me in her head instead of on paper.I grabbed the mixing bowl and cracked eggs into it.“Pancakes or eggs first?” I asked.Silence.I glanced over my shoulder.Her jaw was tight, lips pressed together. Defiant. Starving.I raised a brow. “You plan on communicating today, or should I guess?”A beat.Then, barely audible: “Eggs.”I whisked. “Bacon or sausage?”No answer.I stopped whisking and looked at her fully this time.She rolled her eyes, like answering me was an insult to her dignity. “Sausage.”A smirk tugged at my mouth. “Good choice.”I set the p
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