Semua Bab His Plaything: Bab 51 - Bab 60

[Dante]Petty.That was the only word to describe my actions. I’d never been the type to let emotion dictate my actions, much less over something as trivial as a kiss.Yet the image of Bianca pressing her lips to that… nobody, of all people—had made me act unconsciously.It wasn’t the act itself that still got under my skin, it was the fact that I’d fallen into her trap by proving that she had that sort of effect on me. I was undeniably a possessive man. I thought I could stomach her being with another man aside from me but maybe I’d been wrong about that.How annoying.By the time I slid behind the wheel of the car, it was nearing six in the evening. There was no traffic and the late-day sun bled gold across the windshield. Malcolm should’ve been driving, but Malcolm was dead, and I wasn’t in the mood to hire a new driver just yet. What if I hired an enemy? Bianca sat beside me, arms crossed the whole ride, staring out the passenger window as if the city might offer her an escape ro

[Bianca]I woke to the sound of beeping. A noise I knew all too well. Hence, before I even opened my eyes, I knew where I was. The smell of disinfectant, the stiffness of the sheets, the texture of the bed—this was a hospital. My eyes fluttered open to confirm that guess, and the first thing I saw was Dante.He was slouched in the chair beside me, one arm propped against the armrest, his head tipped sideways. His eyes were shut, lashes above high cheekbones. Even asleep, he looked like something out of a magazine.A frown formed on my face. The last thing I remembered was the crash. Dante had dodged a truck but ended up colliding with the edge of the bridge. So why was he just sitting there while I was the one lying in a bed hooked up to machines?I was still watching him when his eyes cracked open. The initial exhaustion in his gaze turned to alertness when they found mine. I braced for something sarcastic, some reminder of how fragile I was or how much of his precious time I'd was

[Bianca]I pressed my lips together, holding in a shiver at what Dante had just done.The words were still ringing in my head, even though he was long gone. What the hell was wrong with him? Who proposed like that? Who thought marriage was some kind of… bandaid you could slap over a bleeding wound?The sad part was that he wasn’t even trying to save me. No. He only wanted control. That was all he ever wanted. Control over my body, my time, my breath, my death. And the stupid thing? A part of me wasn’t even surprised that it was the most narcissistic proposal ever. If it was even a proposal.I almost laughed. Almost.Because the truth was, this life didn’t even feel like mine to begin with. I had been dragged in and tied down without my permission, and somewhere along the way I stopped trying to live it. What was the point? Even if I said out loud what I felt, people would just pat my hand and tell me to see a therapist. I could already guess the lines they’d feed me. Your life matte

[Bianca]I checked myself in the hotel mirror one last time before Giovanni arrived.The black dress clung to my hips in a way that was almost indecent, the neckline low enough to draw eyes where I wanted them. My blonde curls brushed the bare skin of my shoulders, and my lipstick was still intact after two cocktails—thank God. I arrived at the restaurant downstairs half an hour earlier hence why I had been forced to indulge a little. I wasn't drunk, but I was warm enough inside my head to let my nerves loosen.This wasn't about romance. Not really. It was about forgetting. About proving to myself that I could fuck who I wanted—same as that asshole.Giovanni showed up a little early, striding into the restaurant in a charcoal suit that made him look like he'd stepped out of some Italian movie. His brown hair was tied neatly back, and when he smiled, I almost forgot my plan."Bianca," he greeted, his voice rolling in that accent of his."Giovanni." I lifted my glass, smiling back swee

[Giovanni]Bianca tried to stomp my head, as if her bare heel could crush something already tempered by worse. She didn't know I'd had men twice her size break bottles over my skull, or women with sharper nails carve my skin. Compared to that, her flailing was child's play.Her feet kicked back and forth in a frantic rhythm, each strike grazing air, her desperation almost endearing. I sat up, laughter spilling out of me—ragged, manic, amused at the futility of her rebellion—while dragging her closer like she was nothing more than a fish snagged on a hook.And then—crack.Her foot connected with my jaw and for a second, my grip loosened. She tore free, diving toward the gun.But she was sloppy. They always were.I lunged faster, my hand smacking the weapon out of hers. It clattered across the floorboards again, farther this time. I didn't even bother looking at it. Instead, I shoved her down, knees pinning her hips, my weight pressing over her.Now I was sitting on her back, her arms