All Chapters of The King’s Wrong Captive: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The basement door creaked.Light spilled across the concrete floor, stretching toward me like reaching hands.I tightened my grip on the metal bar, my pulse steadying with trained precision. My back pressed into the shadows, breath controlled, muscles coiled.This was it.My one window.My chance.Footsteps.Slow.Measured.Unhurried.Dante.Of course it was Dante.He moved like a man who owned every inch of darkness in the world — including mine.His silhouette filled the doorway. He descended one step… two…I moved.I exploded out of the shadows, bringing the metal bar down in a brutal arc aimed for his skull.He caught it.Not with a flinch.Not with struggle.Just… caught it.His hand snapped around the bar mid-swing, muscles tightening like a trap shutting around prey.Shock jolted up my arms, but I didn’t stop.I twisted, pivoted, using my whole body to wrench the bar free and swing again—He deflected it with the side of his forearm, the impact reverberating through the metal.

The cut on my forearm burns — a thin line of heat, barely bleeding now, but unmistakably hers.Aria Moretti marked me.I wipe the streak of blood across a white towel and watch it bloom red.She moved beautifully. Too beautifully.Most people fight like animals when cornered.Aria fought like precision personified — sharp, efficient, trained far beyond what any mafia princess should be.I should be furious she tried to kill me again.But as I lean back in my office chair and study the fading blood on my skin, what I actually feel is…alive.She almost caught me off guard.Almost landed that hit.Almost did real damage.And the worst part?A dark part of me wanted her to.I’m still replaying the moment her knife grazed me when a knock hits my office door.I grit my teeth. “Enter.”Rocco slips inside, pale and tense. Not a good sign.“That better not be hesitation on your face,” I say, sitting up.Rocco clears his throat. “Boss… we’ve got movement.”I stand immediately.“Talk.”“We trac

Night settled over the compound like a heavy blanket, thick and humming with distant machinery. The basement was colder than usual, the concrete walls swallowing sound.Aria sat chained again — but she wasn’t fighting anymore. Not physically, anyway.When I offered to lower her cuffs so she could sleep on the cot, she gave me a look like she expected a trick. (Because she always expects a trick. Smart girl.)I loosened the chain length, let her reach the thin metal cot bolted to the wall, and tossed a worn pillow and blanket toward her.“Don’t say I never give you anything,” I muttered.She stared at the items like they were poisoned.Then she picked up the plate of food I’d also brought… and threw it directly at my head.I caught it midair — but barely.“Ungrateful,” I told her.“Kidnapper,” she snapped back.Fair.Eventually, I went upstairs, scrubbed off blood and grime, and lay down in my bed. My body sank into the mattress for the first time in… I don’t know how long.I didn’t

“I need to use the bathroom.”Aria said it through gritted teeth, her wrist tugging against the chain that bound us together. We hadn’t made it five steps down the hall before she stopped in her tracks.I raised a brow. “Convenient.”“Oh my god,” she snapped. “Do you think everything I do is a ploy to escape?”“Yes.”She swore at me in three different languages.Still, I unlocked the bathroom door and pulled her inside with me. She froze, eyes going wide when she realized I wasn’t leaving.“No. No, absolutely not. You’re sick.” She shoved at my chest. “Get. Out.”I leaned against the sink, arms folded. “You asked to pee. Not for privacy.”“You are a perverted dictator!”“You’re my prisoner.”She pointed at me with her free hand. “If you stand there one more second—”“Pee,” I said, smirking. “Or do you need encouragement?”She screamed into her hands, sat down on the toilet, yanking the chain between us violently.I turned my back, giving her dignity despite her accusations— (not

I woke to silence.Not the heavy, breathing silence of a body beside mine — but the kind that prickled along my spine and told me something had changed.I opened my eyes slowly.Dante was no longer in bed.He sat across the room in a chair pulled near the window, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a cup of coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other. Calm. Composed. Awake far longer than I had been.Like he’d been watching me sleep.“What the hell?” I snapped, bolting upright.The movement was sharp — too sharp.Metal bit into my wrists.Both hands were cuffed together.Not to him.To something else.I looked down, heart slamming, and saw the chain trailing off the bed.My breath turned cold.“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I hissed.Dante didn’t look up from the tablet. He took a slow sip of his coffee like I hadn’t spoken.“I wanted to make sure,” he said mildly, “that you didn’t try anything while we were asleep.”“I didn’t—”“And before you finish that sentence,” he continu