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I grasp her chin between my thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up to mine. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch—a trapped bird beating against its cage.

"With this kiss," I murmur against her mouth, "I claim what's mine."

I crush my lips to hers, swallowing her sharp inhale. She tastes like fear and fury and something sweeter—something I want to devour.

My tongue traces the seam of her lips, demanding entry. When she hesitates, my grip on her jaw tightens.

Open for me, little rabbit.

Her lips part on a gasp, and I plunge inside, claiming every inch of her mouth like I'll claim the rest of her later. She makes a sound—half protest, half surrender—as my tongue strokes against hers.

Her hands come up to my chest, pressing against my suit jacket. Not to push me away. No. To my delight, I feel her fingers curl into the fabric, gripping tight like she needs an anchor in this storm I'm dragging her into.

Something shifts in that moment.

The tension in her spine melts beneath me. Her mouth softens under mine. And when my tongue slides deeper, hers rises to meet it—tentative at first, then with growing hunger.

There you are, my wife.

I release her jaw to wrap my hand around the back of her neck, angling her head to take the kiss deeper. Harder. My other arm bands around her waist, crushing her against me until I feel every curve through the silk of her dress.

The cathedral fades away. The witnesses. The priest. The politics.

None of it matters.

Only this: her surrender. Her submission.

When I finally break the kiss, her lips are swollen. Her eyes are glazed. And that defiant chin? It stays lifted, even as she struggles to catch her breath.

Perfect.

I take her hand—my ring already glinting on her finger—and lead her down the aisle. The crowd parts for us, respect and fear creating a path for the Ravelli heir and his new bride. Her fingers tremble in mine, but her spine remains straight, her chin lifted.

Defiant even in surrender.

I lean close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Are you scared, little rabbit?" The question is a whisper meant only for her.

She turns her face to mine, those eyes meeting mine directly. "No."

A single word. Delivered without hesitation.

I stop walking, turning to face her fully. My hand slides up to grip her throat—not squeezing, merely holding. A reminder of who holds her life.

"You should be." My voice drops lower. "You've just married a monster."

Her pulse jumps beneath my palm, but her gaze never wavers. "Perhaps. But at least you're honest about what you are."

Unexpected. This woman continues to surprise me. I expected tears. Trembling. Begging. Not this steel wrapped in silk.

"You know, becoming my wife doesn't save you. I could destroy you." My thumb traces her jawline, teasing her soft lips with a stroke of my thumb. "I can still break you into pieces so small you'd never find yourself again."

"You could try."

A laugh escapes me—genuine, startled. Several heads turn at the sound. Luca Ravelli doesn't laugh. Not at weddings. Not at funerals. Not ever.

But this woman—this maid I claimed from a hotel room—has pulled one from me without effort.