Page 35 of Brutal Crown

My fingers dig into the tray, knuckles white.

“… a reason La Mano Nera hasn’t,” Dante mutters. “And I intend to find out what it is.”

La Mano Nera? What is that?

Someone moves toward the door. So I bolt, slipping around the corner and flattening against the wall, my heart hammering so loudly I’m sure they can hear it.

Then I back away slowly, careful not to make a sound.

I didn’t get enough details on their conversation, but I know enough. They’re still watching me. They think I’m a threat.

My blood pumps harder through my veins. Now I’m more determined to find out what my father had been investigating and why they killed him. And I can find something in their account archives in the cellar.

I press a hand to my stomach, feeling the nausea rising.

Escape isn’t my only option anymore.

I need to know more. Before they finally do what they have planned.

I’m still trembling by the time I stagger to the servants’ quarters. Racing toward my room at the hallway’s shadowed end, I falter when I spot a door ajar. I hear something crashing to the ground, and a frown takes over my face as I walk over.

Another sound comes out as I reach the door. It sounds like… a moan.

Drawn like a moth to flame, I lean toward the gap and peer into it.

I stifle a gasp.

Elio is shirtless. His sculpted frame gleams with sweat, every sinew coiled with primal power. A maid is splayed before him, bent over the desk, her skirt rucked up to bare the pale curves of her hips.

His large hand fists her hair, wrenching her head back as he thrusts into her with a savage and unrelenting rhythm.

I’ve never seen someone in the throes of passion like this. It’s exhilarating, untamed—a plunge into depraved pleasure. For a fleeting, shameful moment, I can’t help but imagine myself in her place, the object of that vicious intensity, with a man’s hands branding my skin, his force unraveling me.

The desk shudders under their weight, as books and papers flutter to the floor, and her breathless cries mingle with his deep, animalistic grunts.

Her nails claw the wood, her body arched perfectly to meet each ferocious drive. The air is thick with the musky scent of their desire.

Suddenly, his head jerks up. And his eyes, dark and molten, lock onto mine.

Heat surges through me, like a wildfire scorching my face and my core. My legs wobble as I bolt, my heart thundering with the image branded into my soul—of his relentless hunger, and her wanton surrender.

I don’t stop until I’m back in my room with the door locked behind me.

I don’t even know what I’m feeling. Shame, shock, heat. All of it. I collapse on the bed, still panting.

I can’t stop thinking about it. The way he slammed into her, the sounds she made.

There’s a throbbing ache in my pussy. I try to ignore it, but it only gets worse by the second. Without even realizing what I’m doing, my hand slips under my skirt.

I push my panties to the side and caress my clit with my thumb. I’m soaked.

A whimper escapes from between my parted lips as I slip one finger inside me. Sweat breaks out over my body as I close my eyes, trying to picture a man touching me. But he’s the only one I can think about.

Francesco.

His mouth. His eyes. That vein in his neck that pulses when he’s angry. I hear his voice in my head. That gravel-low growl, thick with want.

I imagine his fingers sliding into me, slowly at first, then roughly, pushing deep inside my walls, making me cry out in pleasure. A moan slips past my lips as I throw my head back. I imagine his tongue licking the inside of my thighs like he’s hungry, starving, for me.