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“You’re not afraid of my men but of my fucking dog?” he asks, incredulity laced in his voice.

“I know how to deal with men.”

He pushes me toward the front door, and I back into him as if to protect myself from the beast waiting for me.

Turning around, I bury my face in his chest, but the asshole keeps walking, forcing me to move inside. If I close my eyes long enough, maybe my brain will forget that the dog is there.

“He answers to my command.”

“Can I go back?”

“No.”

“I—”

“Luciana.” He says my name ringing with annoyance, but just beneath the surface there is something else—exhaustion.

The lights turn on by the command in his voice, and I notice that blood is all over his shirt—a crimson blending with black, painting a clear picture of death. It soaks his clothes and sticks to my fingers.

The image instantly derails my fear at his dog to being terrified for his well being.

“Are you hurt?” I ask, trying to pry his shirt open. My heart beats a wild rhythm as I search for the wound. My fingers shake, my chin quivers, faced with the thought of losing him for good.

“It’s not mine,” he grumbles, removing himself from my presence—the insensitive asshole.

At the confirmation that he’s all right, the panic vanishes. I instantly calm down until I remember the danger, and my blood pressure spikes once again.

Enzo goes to the bar, leaving me alone with his dog who looks up at me, its nose so close to my knees.

“Kill, come here.”

“Oh my god, you didn’t name your dog that.” I am insulted on the dog’s behalf.

“Why? It seems fitting.”

As he gets petted by him, a wave of lust shoots through me. Yeah, dog, I know how good his ministrations feel.

Wanting to snap out of the haze of desire, my eyes take in the space around me.

The open concept kitchen and living room make the area appear enormous. From the window spanning the front and shiny dark furniture with polished dark floor and big circular golden lights in the ceiling it creates a modern, luxurious aesthetic––simple sophistication that it’s the hardest to achieve comes attached with a big price tag.

He slumps on the comfortable-looking sofa, putting his legs on the brown wood table.

“Show a bit of respect to that piece of art.”

I am about to remove his legs myself when there’s a growl, reminding me of the beast cuddled up to his side.

“This is my fucking home, Luciana,” he grits out.

I shrug. “You should take care of your things, then.”

That has him reacting. Finally.

He puts his legs down, scrubbing a hand down his face that has now some scruff as if he needs to appear even more dangerous and alluring. All my traitorous body imagines is how it would feel scratching along my sensitive skin.

I tilt my head, putting my hands on my waist. “How was your day, amore?”

“Not enough blood to satisfy me, amore,” he spits the last part out.