Semua Bab OWNED BY THE ENEMY: His Dark Claim: Bab 71 - Bab 80

Alessandro’s POV Morning came softer than I expected. A pale, golden light crept through the curtains, warning the edges of the room. But the true warmth was beside me — Amara, curled into the sheets, her breathing steady and soft. I lay there for a moment, just watching her. She looked… safe. For the first time, I realized I wanted to be the one who kept her that way. She shifted, a faint wince pulling between her brows. A bad dream — I could tell. I softly kissed her forehead, my palm smoothing over her hair. “I’m here,” I whispered, though she didn’t hear me. “You're alright.” Last night had been — more than desire. More than release. It felt like crossing a threshold I couldn't turn back from. The contract marriage. The rules. The expectations. Every lie I had built fell away in the dark with her lips on mine. And God help me… I didn't want them back. I slipped from thr bed reluctantly, dressing quickly before my resolve could weaken. A Don couldn't lie in the bed all

Amara’s POV The scream tore me out of sleep. My heart slammed against my ribs as the remnants of my dreams scattered — my parents’ urging me to run, to escape — the same nightmare that haunted my first night in this house. Only… this wasn’t my room. This was his. Alessandro’s scent lingered on the sheets. The events of last night washed through me like a wave — his hands gripping my waist, his mouth claiming mine, his fingers between my legs, the way I cling to him as if refusing to ever let go again. And now, I truly believe… maybe I wouldn’t have to. I slipped into his robe, tightening it around my body as hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway. Elena’s panicked pleas cut through the noise: “Please — leave Signora’s things! She begged!” My throat tightened. What is happening? I stepped out into chaos. Servants rushed in and out of my room — clothes shoved into boxes, drawers emptied with careless hands. A large trunk lay open, stuffed with my dresses as thoug

Ginevra’s POV Amara walks into the room as though she owns the place. She wears his robe with the same ease a woman wears a promise. The sight sharpens something in my chest — hunger, fury, the small cold shame of being overlooked. Matilde had told me he carried her to his bed. Every detail Matilde spoke of lodged under my skin like a splinter. “Stop!” she commanded, though the servants are already doing as I said earlier; they know better than to resist me. Still, Amara stands there, calm and unhurried. The way she meets my eyes — without flinching — is an insult folded into silk. I hold the doctor’s report in my hand like a loaded card. I will play it. I will make the world believe what I know to be true. I will not be the daughter mocked at a table of men. She meets my accusation with a quietness that is harder to break than a scream. “You were the one who spiked my drink,” I say, and the room tightens. “Me?” she answers, voice even. “Why would I do that?” I had

Victor’s POV I savored the wine like I savored other people’s unraveling—slowly, with a private smile curling at the edges. The wedding had been a delicious mess; the kind of theatre you only get once in a lifetime if you were lucky, and I had been greedily taking my seat in the front row. I hadn't meant for everything to go so spectacularly sideways. Rebecca’s little revenge request was a nudge at first—something to amuse her while she got what she wanted. I told her I’d help. I didn't promise fireworks. But once the gears were in motion, small things became avalanches. Salvo’s truck trick had started as a nuisance. The floral glitch, the loosened seam—clever, petty, theatrical. Then Amara decided to be a heroine and drove the truck back herself. I laughed then, quietly, at the way the universe punished the neat plans of men who think in straight lines. What I’d wanted originally was spectacle: a public crack to make Ginevra flinch, to make Alessandro look brittle in front

Amara’s POV When I opened my eyes, the world was white and still. The ceiling above me blurred into a soft haze, and the air reeked faintly of antiseptic. I could hear distant murmurs — nurses asking questions I barely understood. “Can you hear us?” “Does your chest hurt?” Do you feel dizzy?” But my mind wasn't here. It was still trapped in the echo of Ginevra’s voice — sharp, mocking — and the horrified gasps of the servants. Then… nothing. Just blackness swallowing everything. When I tried to move, a sharp tug pulled at my wrist. A drip line. I blinked, realizing I was being wheeled down the corridor on a hospital trolley. The wheels squeaked faintly, and a few nurses hurried alongside, whispering things to one another. Then I saw him. Alessandro stood at the far end of the hall, rigid and silent, his expression unreadable. The doctors gestured for him to follow, and without a word, he obeyed. His eyes flickered once toward me — quick, assessing — before he disappear