Page 32 of Beautiful Torment (Empire of Kings #1)

When he closes the distance between us, my body stirs with awareness. Every inhale becomes a little more shallow as my nerves pulse to life—waiting, craving, remembering.

His warm fingers graze my jaw, angling my face up to his. “Do you trust me, cara ?”

That question is deceptively soft, and I can’t help but wonder if this is a trap. The concept of trust in this particular setting varies wildly. Do I trust him not to throw me off the cliff? Probably. Do I trust him not to use the brand? Definitely. But if not those things, then what?

I search his eyes, looking for the slightest hint of malice, but right now…

I find none. All I see are the ghosts of a thousand memories time and distance haven’t erased.

I’ve known him through almost every season of my life…

except the one that altered us the most. We’re two different people standing at a literal precipice, and now, I have new memories with him I’ll never be able to forget.

When I close my eyes, I’m back on that rooftop, my life hanging in the balance. I felt every pounding heartbeat, every shudder, every scream. And still, I surrendered to him.

If that’s not trust, what is?

I find myself nodding along, surrendering to this moment too. I’m giving him everything tonight…every piece of me. I need to believe that the Angelo I’ve always known is still in there.

I open my eyes, and he leans in, his mouth hovering a breath away from mine.

“Good.” The raw edge of approval in his voice warms my skin and makes me feel slightly drunk.

I’ve pleased him, and I like it far too much.

He rewards me by tilting my head back and tracing the slope of my jaw with his lips.

It’s a slow, deliberate kind of torture that he concludes when he presses a kiss beneath my ear.

There’s a momentary pause as I hold my breath, marveling at just how sensitive that space is.

Then, he buries his face in my neck and inhales me.

It sets every nerve in my body on fire and leaves me cold and disoriented when he pulls away.

I barely register that he’s turning me in his arms until he drapes his tie over my face. As he knots it into a makeshift blindfold at the back of my head, I try to recall accounts of other marking ceremonies. Was there a blindfold?

That thought evaporates when I hear the shuffling of feet on the terrace. We’re not alone anymore, and it reminds me of something Angelo said to the witnesses. He asked them to let his men bring him what he requires. I can only imagine what that might be.

There’s a grunt and more shuffling behind us. When I try to turn toward the sound, Angelo wraps his palm around the back of my neck, halting me.

“Leave,” he orders.

The men’s footsteps drift away, followed by the rattling of chains, before the portcullis slams into place. It’s a haunting sound that rings of finality, and I can’t help but wonder what happens now.

Angelo closes in behind me, the warmth of his body a solid presence against my back.

The featherlight touch of his knuckles grazes my arm in a slow descent, all the way down to my palm.

He threads his fingers through mine, lifting my arm up over his shoulder and draping it around the back of his neck.

He leaves me in that position, open and on display as his knuckles skim back down the side of my body. Goosebumps trail in his wake, and when his palm flattens over my middle and pulls me back against the heat of his erection, I release a ragged breath.

“Tonight, you’ll become mine in every sense of the word.” His honeyed words carry an edge of menace that sends a shiver down my spine.

It’s at odds with the lazy reverence of his hands as they explore my body.

Two large palms glide over my hips and skim past my waist, pressing into my ribcage before they settle over the curves of my breasts.

They squeeze and grope, his thumbs circling my nipples beneath the lace of my dress.

A rush of heat sweeps through me as I melt against him, and he presses his lips against my neck.

He kisses a path down to the hollow of my collarbone, then retraces the same track with the scrape of his teeth, biting into my skin.

My chest rises sharply, and a breathless sound escapes me.

He captures it with his mouth. We shift, my arm falling back to my side as he turns me to face him.

Our bodies press together, and he threads his fingers through my hair, angling my head back, and deepening the kiss.

A low hum of pleasure rumbles from his chest as he sweeps his tongue across my bottom lip and then inside my mouth.

He licks me, and I feel it right between my thighs. I want him to do it again and again.

A thought plays through my mind—him ripping my dress in half, sending buttons scattering as he peels it off my naked body. That’s what this kiss feels like.

My hands map the expanse of his back, all muscle and solid bones stretching beneath his shirt. I’m annoyed by the material in my way, so I fist his shirt and start to tug.

A quiet sound of amusement vibrates against me, and gradually, he pulls his lips from mine.

“Tell me what you want, Abella.” He unravels his hand from my hair and brushes his fingers against my cheek.

I’m a mess of nerves. Heart pounding. Ears thrashing. Breath hitching. I know he can see that, even if I can’t see him. But he wants to expose me and make me vulnerable.

I guess that’s what I deserve.

“You,” I breathe. “I want you.”

A grating noise echoes in the silence, and I freeze. It sounds like something scraping over stone, and I can’t tell if it’s coming from behind the castle wall or inside with us. But Angelo seems unfazed as he presses his lips to my ear.

“You will have me, cara ...until death parts us.”

Those ominous words lodge deep in my chest, among the shattered remains of the same promise I once made to him.

He guides me across the terrace toward what I presume is the throne and begins the painstaking process of unbuttoning my dress. It’s a slow, deliberate unraveling that reminds me how patient he can be—when he wants to.

I’d almost forgotten about the marking ceremony, but the shift in pace tells me that Angelo hasn’t.

When he finishes with the buttons, he traces the straps of my dress with his fingers and carefully slides them over my shoulders. The bodice slips down to my waist, and he coaxes it over my hips until it pools around my feet.

Silence lingers as I stand there in nothing but a corseted black-satin bustier and thong.

I feel the weight of his gaze through the blindfold, but he says nothing.

Every second feels like a punishment, and I hate that I crave his approval.

The worst part is that he knows it. This must be the reason for the blindfold—so he can deprive me of any pleasure I might witness on his face.

When the warmth of his hand finally settles against my hip, a swell of relief rises in my throat. He drags his thumb along the band of my thong, sliding beneath it and snapping it against my skin.

“Look at you,” he hums. “The trinket every man in Seattle wants. And here you are… mine . Why is that, bella ?”

He’s baiting me.

Another game.

Another manipulation.

“Because you can?” I answer honestly.

“And?” His hand slips beneath the fabric of my thong, fingers gliding through my arousal.

A breath hisses through my teeth as I arch back into him and repeat what he told me in my bedroom. “And you’re the only one who can give this to me.”

The sound that rumbles from his chest is dark as sin and dripping with pleasure. “Clever girl.”

His head dips, and he drags his teeth over the delicate skin of my neck like he wants to bite me.

He sucks and licks and tastes me there, driving me to the point of madness.

It shouldn’t feel so good to have the devil at your throat.

And I definitely shouldn’t be moaning when his teeth finally sink into me.

He soothes the sting with the softness of his lips, and my nervous system short-circuits. I lose myself to his control and the friction of his fingers between my thighs. In a matter of moments, I’m on the verge of coming undone.

“Come for me,” he murmurs. “I want you so wet when I fuck you, you’ll take every inch of my cock.”

A roaring flame licks down my spine and crashes deep inside me, exploding into an orgasm that steals my breath.

I collapse into his arms as wave after endless wave rolls through me, dissolving every ounce of tension in my body.

Warmth spreads through my veins, liquid pleasure saturating my blood as I bathe in the afterglow.

“ Brava ragazza .” Angelo’s heated praise soaks into me like golden sunlight.

He holds me upright, waiting for my racing heart to calm before he lowers me onto my knees. Soft velvet brushes against my skin, and I know it must be the pillow that was resting on the throne. A small comfort for the tattoo ceremony.

My mind is blissfully empty as he settles into the seat behind me.

A few moments pass as he snaps on some gloves and prepares his tools.

Once he’s ready, he brushes my hair aside, cleans my skin, and presses the stencil to the nape of my neck.

In keeping with tradition, Society wives are marked with their husband’s family crest on the night of their wedding.

The Vitale crest is a shield with a snake curling up each side, a crown perched at the top, and two crossed swords with a ‘V’ carved into each hilt.

Each mark holds significance for the Vitale family, and as a whole, it will serve as both a symbol of power and ownership.

Every man in The Society will recognize that I belong to Angelo Vitale.

It’s a language of its own in our world.

A way of recognizing which woman belongs to whom.

And therefore, it serves as a warning. Touch a marked woman, and you’d better mark your own days because they will surely be numbered.