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Standing at the foot of my bed, dressed in—of course—more black.
The man owns a closet. Why does he refuse to wear anything but the color of death?
Except tonight, he’s not in his usual suit. He’s wearing a compression shirt and sweatpants, and God help me, it’s infuriating how good he looks. The fabric clings to him, outlining every muscle, every inch of the man I once knew intimately.
I’ve seen him naked before, but back then, it was dark. Here, under harsh light, I see everything, including the head of his dick bouncing in his pants, and like an idiot, part of me wonders what he’d look like out of them.
Geezuz… focus, Alessa.
As if sensing my gaze, Dominic turns, his dark eyes locking onto mine. For a split second, something sharp and electric zips through me—but I shove it down, burying it deep before it can bloom into something dangerous.
Dominic Gianelli is my captor.
My enemy.
I won’t let myself forget that.
Then, his cruel words about my mother slash through my mind, reopening a wound that never fully healed. The pain sharp, like a knife twisting in my gut, relentless and unforgiving. And as the car jerked forward earlier, it wasn’t just the force that stole my breath. I was backthere—that night.
I never fully remember what happened, only that flashes come when I least expect them. This time, I saw my father’s hands gripping the wheel, his knuckles bone-white. My mother’s voice, sharp with panic. The car moving too fast. Just like Dominic’s did. The same reckless speed before everything shattered.
I force myself to blink, pushing the memory down before it swallows me whole.
“You’re awake,” he says, moving toward the bed.
The mattress dips as he sits near my leg, and instinct takes over—I curl them back, a barrier between us.
Maybe for protection.
Maybe just to keep him from touching me.
Maybe… for sanity.
Either way, I don’t trust him enough to close the space.
“How are you feeling?”
I blink at him, rolling my eyes.
How am I feeling?
Is he serious?
“Exhausted. And really hungry.” My voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper.
I search his expression for guilt. For regret. For anything proving he feels something about what he’s done to me.
His face remains blank. Unbothered.
“You had quite a day,” he muses, as if I’d tripped into this situation rather than being violently kidnapped. “As for yourhunger, that’s easily rectified. Food is served three times a day, sometimes four if Rosaria’s in a good mood and makesLa Merenda.”
At the mention ofLa Merenda, my throat tightens.
My mother used to makecrostata, but she was awful at it—either too sweet or too sour, never quite right. But she never stopped trying. And I never stopped eating it, pretending it was perfect just to see her smile.
It became our thing.
Now, I’d give anything to sit at our kitchen table and eat one of her messy, too-sweet pastries.