Chapter One
Isolde
The first thing I noticed was silk.
Not the cheap kind that pretends to shimmer. This was real.
Heavy but soft. Blood-red and glossy. It clung to my skin like humidity, kissing every curve like it had a memory of my body.
The straps were thin, the fabric just translucent enough to hint without giving. The kind of thing you wear when someone else picked it for how it'll look on the floor.
And I knew immediately—I didn't choose it.
The sheets beneath me were cold. Egyptian cotton. White with a faint embroidered crest at the corners. Virelli. Of course.
Even the damn bedding was branded.
I sat up slowly. My thighs slipped over one another in the silk, the soft weight of the slip whispering as I moved. The air was chilled, rich with a scent I hadn't let myself think about in five years.
Smoky oud. Clean linen. Sharp spice. Expensive danger.
Him.
The room was elegant in the worst way: marble floors, velvet blackout curtains drawn back to reveal a wall of glass. The morning sun filtered through in slanted gold, brushing across dark wood furniture, a minimalist fireplace, and—God help me—a silver tray of fresh fruit and still-bubbling champagne.
He hadn't just brought me here.
He wanted me to feel it.
I stood, barefoot, tense, one strap of the slip falling down my shoulder. My body ached with questions I didn't want the answers to.
And that's when I felt it.
A presence.
Not loud. Not moving. But there.
Watching.
I turned slowly, already clenching my fists, already furious.
And there he stood.
Raziel Virelli.
Leaning in the open doorway like he had all the time in the world to watch me unravel.
He was shirtless—of course he was.
The tattoos were still there, somehow darker than I remembered. A coiled black dragon across his chest, its tail curling under his ribs. Wings stretched across his collarbones. Latin script beneath the ink—nihil sine voluntate. Nothing without will.
His skin was darker now. Sun-kissed. His body leaner. Sharper. Cut in ways that had nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to do with control. Muscle without softness. Power without apology.
A new scar sliced through one of the tattoos. High on his ribs.
I didn't know how he got it.
But I wanted to know who bled more—him, or the one who put it there.
His hair was longer. Dark waves that had no business looking that good tousled. His mouth was firm, unsmiling. And those eyes—
Coal black. Still unreadable. Still cold.
Still watching me like I was something he already owned.
"You son of a bitch," I said, barely above a whisper.
He tilted his head, slow, deliberate. "Good morning, Isolde."
"Where am I?"
He stepped forward, bare feet against stone tile like it was nothing. "Where you belong."
I moved to pass him, to push him, something. My blood buzzed with panic and fury.
But his hand caught me.
One second I was moving. The next—I was stopped.
His palm closed around the side of my throat—not choking, not forcing, just claiming. Holding me steady.
His thumb brushed my jaw, then traced a slow path to the hollow of my throat.
My breath stuttered. My nipples tightened beneath the silk.
I hated my body for remembering him.
"You've forgotten," he murmured, eyes drifting down to my lips, "how to be touched."
"I haven't forgotten anything," I snapped.
"No?" He tilted his head. "Then why are you wet?"
My cheeks flushed, not from shame—but rage.
I slapped him.
He didn't flinch. He caught my wrist before it landed. Turned it. Dragged it down to his chest—flat against the heat of his skin.
"That's the last time you hit me," he said, calm as glass.
"And if I do it again?"
His smile flicked like a knife. "Then I'll remind you how to beg with my name in your mouth."
His grip tightened, just enough to make me gasp. And then he moved—fast, fluid, terrifyingly smooth.
He spun me around.
My back hit his chest, and I felt every inch of him—hot skin, hard muscle, and something pressing against my lower spine that made my thighs tremble despite everything screaming no.
His arm slid low across my ribs, holding me firm.
The other hand dragged up my thigh, slowly, wickedly, until it brushed just beneath the hem of the silk.
I choked on a sound I didn't want to make.
He chuckled low behind me.
"Still pretending?" he asked against my neck.
"Still delusional," I said through my teeth.
He turned me again—spun me to face him. His hand returned to my throat, and this time I gripped his wrist. Not to pull away. To anchor myself.
He leaned in. Close enough for his breath to kiss my lips.
"You left once," he whispered. "But you came back the second you slept in my silk."
Then he kissed me.
Deep. Rough. A warning disguised as a memory.
And I kissed him back.
Only for a second. Only to remind him I could.
But God help me—he tasted like ruin.
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