Page 41

The soft rustle of silk follows me as I stand before the tall mirror, fastening the tiny clasp of my necklace. My reflection stares back at me—steady, composed, unfamiliar still in its quiet peace. A silk champagne gown wraps around my frame.

Behind me, I hear the low click of the closet doors opening.

“You’re staring at yourself like you’re not the most beautiful woman in Melbourne,” Serevin says, his voice smooth, laced with that quiet possessiveness he never quite hides.

I meet his gaze in the mirror as he approaches.

He’s half dressed, his white shirt open at the collar, cufflinks in hand, the black suit jacket still hanging on the chair.

The years have softened him only in the smallest ways.

His edges remain sharp; the man beneath the is still lethal, but his eyes only ever soften for me now.

“We’re not late yet,” I murmur, raising a brow as he comes to stand behind me, towering as always.

He slips his arms around my waist, resting his chin lightly on my shoulder, and watches me through the mirror. His thumb traces idle circles on my stomach.

“It’s just…hard to believe sometimes.” I let the words fall from my mouth before I can stop them.

It’s strange how quickly two years can change everything. Not long ago, this house was filled with ghosts—betrayal dripping from every polished wall. Now it’s ours. Fully ours.

After the coup, the council did what it always does—it chose survival over loyalty.

Vittoria and Gustavo were excommunicated for treason against the Melbourne syndicate.

Exiled. Stripped of their rights. Every territory they controlled was absorbed back into the syndicate and redistributed under my authority.

Even Vittoria’s own blood—the Accardi elders, her loyal hounds—eventually submitted to me.

They didn’t have a choice. With the council’s vote, I was officially recognized as the legitimate daughter of Don Aldo—Serevin’s adoptive father, my biological one.

The true heir to the D’Angelis fortune and the Accardi empire.

The bloodlines merged, for the first time in syndicate history, under a woman’s rule.

Serevin handed it to me without hesitation.

“My aunt’s game is over,” he said that day in front of the council. “The old bloodlines answer to my wife now.”

And they did. The old guards—the heads of Perth, Brisbane, Sydney—they swore fealty to me that day, not because they respected me yet, but because I had broken something none of them could: the Acardi’s legacy.

Since then, we’ve built something new. Something terrifying to them. A power structure that runs on both fear and loyalty. A syndicate not ruled by a puppet don behind closed doors, but by both of us—openly, ruthlessly.

Monte’s family tried to resist at first. But without Gustavo, without Vittoria’s alliances, their routes dried up like cheap wine under the Australian sun.

Eventually, they too folded. The Montenegro family now sits as our silent partners, under my thumb, their previous threats long dissolved into desperate compliance.

Serevin still carries the scars from that night—both on his body and in his mind. I see it in his eyes sometimes, when he thinks I’m not looking. But he never flinches when we make decisions now. He lets me rule, and I let him protect.

We’ve stopped pretending this marriage was anything but what it always was: an empire built on obsession and survival that somehow bled into something neither of us can control.

“Cassian’s probably pacing already,” he says with a faint smile. “He’s terrified Emilia might leave him at the altar.”

I laugh softly, tilting my head back against him. “If anyone’s likely to run, it’s him. She probably still thinks this is a trap.”

I catch his reflection in the mirror. His eyes aren’t just hungry—they’re soft, too. That softness still disarms me. Two years, and I still haven’t gotten used to how quickly this man can switch between predator and worshiper.

His fingers trail up my spine, finding the zipper of my dress. Slowly, so slowly, he zips me up, knuckles grazing bare skin as he does.

“You know,” I whisper, turning my head slightly toward him, “most men would be downstairs right now, preparing for the ceremony.”

His lips curl into a half-smile. “Most men don’t have my priorities.”

The zipper reaches the top, but his hand lingers at the nape of my neck, fingers splaying, claiming.

His thumb brushes my pulse. I feel it pounding beneath his touch. “If I kiss you now,” he murmurs, “you’ll make us late.”

I smirk, feeling my strength surge. “Then don’t kiss me.”

He laughs softly into my neck. “Impossible.”

Without breaking eye contact through the mirror, his hand glides down, gathering the silk fabric and pulling my dress up, inch by inch, baring my thighs, my hips, until the hem rests just above my ass.

His palm caresses the soft curve, fingers spreading possessively, as if savoring the shape that’s his alone.

My breath hitches as his other hand moves with patience, sliding around my waist, finding the waistband of my lace panties. He tugs them down with an agonizing slowness, letting the fabric slide down my legs and pool at my feet.

I hold the vanity. sharp against my fingertips as anticipation coils low in my belly.

His fingers trail over the freshly exposed skin, tracing the cleft of my ass before dipping between my thighs. I gasp when his fingers find me, already slick, already desperate for his touch.

“So wet for me,” he growls, the softness in his gaze giving way to something far more primal.

Two fingers slide into me from behind, his movements practiced, purposeful. His thumb circles my clit with maddening precision, and my knees threaten to buckle. But he steadies me with his free hand, palm firm against my hip, anchoring me to him.

I watch us in the mirror. His fingers slip between my slick folds once more, but this time, there’s more intent behind his touch.

The first finger glides in easily, my body eager and yielding for him.

Then a second joins, stretching me just a little more, making me gasp softly against the cool glass.

My reflection stares back at me—flushed cheeks, half-lidded eyes, lips parted in a silent moan.

“You’re taking me so well,” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence and hunger. “So ready for me.”

Then I feel the pressure—gentle but insistent—as his third finger presses in, pushing me open even wider. My breath catches sharply, my hips instinctively rocking back to meet him, welcoming the delicious fullness of his hand stretching me.

His fingers work in steady strokes, curling slightly as he moves, each motion finding that sensitive spot deep inside me that sends a surge of pleasure rippling through my core.

My legs tremble, and I grip the edges of the vanity harder, my forehead pressing into the mirror as soft whimpers escape me.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he withdraws his fingers, leaving me empty for a moment that feels like a cruel tease. But then I hear the soft rustle of his pants, feel his bare length press against the backs of my thighs. His hand finds my waist, steadying me, claiming me.

The swollen head of his cock nudges against my entrance, hot, hard, and throbbing. He presses in gently at first, letting my body adjust as he parts me inch by inch. The stretch is exquisite—a sweet, aching fullness that makes me moan helplessly into the glass.

I breathe, my voice trembling, my body arching instinctively to take more of him.

He groans low, his voice tight with restraint as he sinks deeper.

I can feel him dragging along my inner walls, every nerve ending lit up as he slides further inside, brushing places that make me shudder and whimper, my body clenching around him.

When he finally bottoms out, buried completely, I can feel him pressing against that spot deep inside—the one that makes my breath catch and my vision blur for a moment.

A flood of fresh arousal coats him, and I feel myself growing wetter, the slippery glide of him inside me sending a fresh wave of heat through my belly. My hips move on their own, rolling back into him, greedy for more.

His grip tightens on my waist, fingertips digging into my skin as he lets out a strangled groan.

I rock back against him again, emboldened by the sounds escaping him, the thickness of him stroking every sensitive inch inside me.

His thrusts stay slow and steady, but his hunger grows, pouring out through his hands as they begin to roam.

One hand glides up the slope of my waist, over my ribcage, and then slips beneath the thin fabric of my bra.

His fingers close around my breast, warm and possessive, his thumb brushing over my hardened nipple.

The sensation pulls a sharp gasp from me, my body arching back into him as he continues to drive into me with deep, unhurried strokes.

His other hand finds my second breast, palming it as he rocks into me, each thrust sending fresh waves of pleasure radiating through my body.

I moan, my head tipping back against his shoulder, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of being filled, touched, and worshipped all at once.

My nipples ache beneath his touch as his fingers tease and roll them, his cock dragging against that sweet, swollen spot deep inside me with every slow push.

And then, without warning, he pulls out—the sudden emptiness making me whimper with need. But before I can speak, I turn, grabbing his hand and pulling him with me toward the bed, our bodies flushed and desperate.

His eyes burn with want as he follows, letting himself be led, his breath ragged, chest rising and falling with hunger. I push him gently back onto the mattress, watching him sink into the soft sheets, his cock standing tall and glistening between his thighs.