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Elena woke before dawn.
The bedroom was bathed in pale blue light. Silk sheets tangled around her legs. The air was thick with the scent of cologne and desire, a ghost of the night before.
Alessandro lay beside her, one powerful arm locked around her waist like a chain. His bare chest rose and fell with slow, even breaths, but his grip on her was anything but peaceful.
Even in sleep, he held her like someone might come and steal her away.
Elena shifted slightly, testing the limits of his hold.
"You're not going anywhere," he murmured, his voice hoarse with sleep.
She froze.
"I wasn't trying to," she whispered.
His eyes opened. Dark, unreadable. "Good."
Always watching.
He buried his face in her hair, breathing her in like she grounded him. "Stay in bed with me."
"You never ask," she said quietly.
A beat of silence. Then, "I don't have to."
She pulled back to look at him. "But maybe you should."
His jaw tensed. "Are you saying no?"
"I'm saying I'm not a prisoner."
Alessandro rolled on top of her in one fluid motion, bracing himself with his arms on either side of her head. "No. You're not a prisoner, Elena. You're a wife. My wife."
"And what does that mean to you?"
"It means you belong to me."
Her heart thudded in her chest. "That's not love."
"I never said it was," he replied darkly, brushing a knuckle over her cheek. "But maybe it's something more dangerous."
She swallowed. "Possession isn't the same as affection, Alessandro."
His eyes narrowed, shadows swirling behind them. "Don't test me, Elena."
But she didn't flinch. "Maybe you need someone to test you."
Something shifted in him.
He kissed her again, but this time it was different. Slower. Less about control, more about feeling. Like her defiance had scratched the surface of something deeper inside him.
Later that week, Elena wandered into the study—one of the few rooms she hadn't explored in their penthouse. The air smelled of old books and leather. The walls were lined with shelves of law books, finance ledgers, and dark history.
And in the center, a photo.
She moved closer.
It was of a woman—tall, elegant, her eyes sharp like Alessandro's. But they weren't warm. They were ice. Elena could see it even through the glass.
"She was my mother."
Elena turned, startled to find him in the doorway.
"She looks… cold."
Alessandro gave a bitter smile. "She was. My father married her for power. She married him for his name. I was just the result."
Elena looked at him, the guarded way he stood, hands in his pockets like he was trying to be casual. But his eyes betrayed him.
"She taught me to control everything," he said. "To never be weak. To never… need anyone."
"Then why marry at all?" she asked.
"Because the alliance was necessary. And because I thought I could handle it."
"And now?"
He stepped closer. "Now, I can't stop thinking about how your lips taste when you're angry. Or the way your eyes challenge me. Or how no matter how tightly I hold you, I still feel like I could lose you."
Elena's breath caught.
"You scare me," she said, truthfully.
He looked down. "You scare me too."
It was the most honest thing either of them had said.