LOGINHis fingers ghost along her thigh, feather-light, promising ruin. 'Beg for it, principessa,' he murmurs against her ear, 'or I'll make you come until you forget your own name. Again.'" ______ In the shadowed empires of Europe, Elara Voss is the untouchable princess of the German mafia—beautiful, pure, and groomed for absolute loyalty. But beneath her poised exterior burns a secret craving for chaos. Dante Russo, the ruthless king of Rome's underworld, sees her once and obsesses. With eyes like black fire and a reputation for taking what he craves, he orchestrates her kidnapping on the eve of her arranged marriage, forcing her into vows at gunpoint. Now captive in his Rome penthouse, Elara is bound by his rules and if she breaks any, punishments are slow and sinful—teasing touches that leave her trembling, belts that burn, vibrators that torment until defiance melts into desperate whimpers and slick need. She fights back fiercely but every clash deepens the addiction. What starts as vengeance twists into craving, for both predator and prey. In a game of empires and betrayal, one question lingers—who will corrupt whom completely?
View MoreThe tension in the room had settled but Elara's mind remained unsettled. She stared at the black dress on the bed, contemplating if she should wear it and go out there like he demanded or not. But she knew that if she was at all going to escape this place, it won't be with her handcuffed to the bed. At least he unlocked it. For now. His words still rang in her head — " What if it's from you? Will you give me?". She has no idea what he meant by that neither did she have any idea of what she could have, that he wants. But she will find out. The dress he wanted her to wear, was simple. Too simple. Black silk, sleeveless, cut to fall just above the knee. No embellishments or zipper in the back that she could see. It looked like something a man would choose when he wanted a woman to look elegant without looking like she had tried. She hated it. Her wrist still throbbed where the cuff had been. The skin was red and raw, a thin scab forming along the edge. She flexed h
Elara took a sharp intake of breath, her eyes suddenly opening. She grabbed her chest, feeling an immense amount of pain in it. It took a while for yesterday's memories to rush back into her head, but once they did, she panicked. The screech of tires. The gunshot. Lucas’s lifeless eyes staring straight through her. The cold metal of the gun butt cracking against her temple. Her heart slammed so hard it hurt more than the ache in her skull. She lunged upward—only to be yanked back down. Cold steel bit into her right wrist and she realized she was handcuffed. To the headboard. She twist and turned, hoping to unlock it somehow but nothing worked. “No—no—no—” The word came out in short, frantic bursts. One of her father's enemies must've gotten her... but which one could it be? She scanned the room for the first time since she got opened her eyes. The room was wide, unbelievable wide for where a prisoner should be kept. The walls and floor were covered with black wallpape
Elara Voss Elara picked her fork up gently, making sure it made no sound when she picked the salmon she never wanted, on the plate. Her stomach turned with uncertainty as her eyes watched the man kept yelling at the restaurant's waitress, who kept apologizing million times. But he kept berating her for the "undercooked" filet. He’d gained quite the attention from most people in the restaurant. A few of them even had their phones angled not so discreetly. Elara tried to act like it wasn’t any of her business, but heat crawled up neck anyway. This was supposed to be a quiet lunch. A chance for her and Alex Valenti to “connect” before the wedding fitting that afternoon. Instead, the air around them was tensed and if she had dreaded getting married before, she hated it now. She had thought him to be the nice gentleman like he portrayed at the gala but she should've known better. The said man sat across her, posture perfect, suit immaculate with no ounce of mistake in the ironi
Before she could let out a scream, a cold hand slapped over her lips, shutting her. Her frantic eyes were widely opened and the only thing that could rush through her mind in her panicked state was this is it — this is how I die. The small room was dim, lit only by the faint glow seeping under the door from the hallway. She could smell expensive cologne — dark, smoky, with a sharp bite of leather and something metallic underneath, like gun oil or blood. She could tell because she grew up around men in the mafia. The hand over her mouth was large, calloused, but somehow gentle. She thrashed once, instinct more than thought, but he pressed closer, chest to her back, his breath warm against her ear. “Shhh, principessa,” a low voice murmured, sending shivers down her spine “Scream and you’ll draw every guard in this place. And I promise you… I’m faster than they are.” The accent was unmistakably Italian — rich and undoubtedly dangerous. Not likr the polished American lilt of Alex V
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