Page 14

"I'm going tomarkyou," I correct her. "How much it hurts depends entirely on how still you remain."

Vladimir and Marco move to her sides, prepared to hold her down if necessary. Her eyes dart between them, calculating odds, measuring her chances. Finding none.

"You have a choice, Francesca," I say softly, moving to kneel between her legs, pushing the red dress higher up her thighs. "You can accept this willingly, or you can fight and be held down. Either way, when we're finished, you'll bear my mark."

Something changes in her expression. A decision made. She lifts her chin, eyes blazing with defiance even as her body surrenders to inevitability.

"Fine," she says, voice steady. "But remember something, Dante Ravelli. Whatever mark you put on my skin, it doesn't touch who I am inside. That part of me you will never own."

I push the dress higher, exposing the creamy skin of her inner thigh, my knuckles deliberately brushing the damp heat between her legs. Her cunt radiates warmth against my skin, and I'm so fucking close I could slip my fingers into her with one movement.

No doubt. This is the perfect location for my mark.

Intimate, possessive, visible only to me when I spread her thighs and feast on what belongs to me.

"We'll see," I murmur, bringing the needle to her skin, my breath hot against her flesh. "We'll see which part of you surrenders first."

The needle pierces flesh, her sharp intake of breath followed by a sound almost like a moan.

I begin etching the Ravelli crest with a scratch against her skin, each line a claim on her body and soul.

As I work, the surprising scent of her arousal begins to mingle with the metallic tang of blood. One look up at her and my cock hardens painfully against my zipper.

She doesn't cry out, doesn't beg, but her thighs quiver beneath my touch, muscles clenching with each stroke of the needle. Her nipples harden visibly beneath the silk, her chest heaving with shallow breaths.

Minutes pass, the ritual continuing in silence broken only by the buzz of the tattoo gun and the ragged catch in her throat when my wrist angles and moves dangerously close to her core.

She's wet, despite everything—her body betraying her mind with primal response to my marking.

When I finish, wiping away the last traces of blood to reveal the completed mark, raw satisfaction burns through me like liquor. The Ravelli crest stands stark against the paleness of her inner thigh, mere inches from where I'll claim her fully.

Soon.

"Beautiful," I growl, tracing the outline with my gloved finger, deliberately drifting higher until her thighs clench to stop my advance. I feel the heat of her, see the unwilling hunger in her dilated pupils. "Now there can be no question whose cunt this is."

She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing but a faint breath escapes.

I rise to my feet, turning to Vladimir. "Prepare the camera. Her father will want proof his merchandise has been properly claimed."

Her eyes flash dangerously. "You wouldn't dare."

"Nothing inappropriate. No one but me will get to see your pussy anymore," I assure her with mock gallantry. "Just enough to show your father the mark. To confirm delivery of goods. A debt repaid."

"I am not—"

"—merchandise," I finish for her. "So you keep saying. And yet, here we are."

Vladimir readies the camera while Marco ensures she remains seated, the red dress arranged to reveal just enough of the fresh tattoo without exposing more than necessary.

Ravellis remain diplomatic even in humiliation.

The camera flashes. Once. Twice. Evidence captured.

"Send it," I order Vladimir. "With the message: 'The Castellano princess serves a new master now.'"

When we're alone again, she finally allows herself to move, pushing the dress down with shaking hands, a soft hiss escaping when the fabric meets tender flesh.

"Does it satisfy you?" she asks suddenly, voice husky despite her fury. "Treating women like cattle to be branded? Is this how the great Dante Ravelli proves his manhood?"