Page 8 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

Chapter Eight

Dom

T he last guest finally leaves at nearly midnight, their laughter and chatter fading as the front door closes behind them.

Sophie kicks off her heels, the sharp sound of them hitting marble echoing through the now-empty house. Without saying a word to her, I turn away and head toward the back of the house.

“Dom.”

Her voice cuts through the living area, but I don’t slow down. Don’t turn around. If I look at her right now, if I see that dress clinging to her curves or remember how she looked in another man’s arms, I’m going to do something we’ll both regret.

“Dom, wait.”

But I’m already disappearing into the part of the house she’s never explored.

Down another flight of stairs. Through a heavy wooden door. Into the wine cellar.

Cool air hits my face as I step inside, carrying the rich scent of aged oak and fermenting grapes. It’s almost chilly down here, a sharp contrast to the heated tension I’ve been carrying all evening.

I don’t come down here often. Maybe six or seven times a year, when I need to think, to escape the weight of running an empire and managing everyone’s expectations.

However, the house staff keeps it perfectly maintained, dusting the bottles and polishing the dark wood table that sits in the center of the space.

Ancient stone walls surround me, lined with climate-controlled wine racks that hold bottles worth more than most people’s cars. Above the table, a wrought-iron chandelier casts warm, flickering light that dances across the stone, creating intimate shadows in the corners.

I pour myself three fingers of a fifty-year-old scotch from the bar cart and lean against the table, letting the silence wash over me.

I take a sip and close my eyes, trying to find some semblance of the man I was before Sophie Bellini walked into my office with her fake name and her real agenda.

“Hiding?”

My eyes snap open. Sophie stands in the doorway, one hand resting on the stone archway. She’s still in her dress, and her feet are bare against the cold floor.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, not moving from my position against the table.

“Looking for my husband.” She steps into the cellar, and the chandelier light catches the silk of her dress, making it shimmer like water. “Funny thing, though. I’m not sure I actually have one.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sophie moves closer, her fingers trailing along the wine racks as she walks. “What kind of husband sees his wife dancing with another man and completely ignores her?”

I take another sip of scotch, using the burn to focus my thoughts. “The kind who trusts his wife to handle herself in social situations.”

“Trust.” She lets out a brittle laugh. “That’s what you call it?”

“What would you call it?”

“Indifference. Cowardice, maybe.” She’s directly across from me now, separated only by the width of the table. “Or maybe you just don’t care what I do. Who I talk to. Who I dance with.”

My grip tightens on the glass. “Careful, Sophie.”

“Careful of what? Of telling the truth?” She leans forward, bracing her hands on the table.

“You introduced me to your friends as Sophie Bellini. You made sure everyone in that room knew exactly who I was and what my family name represents. Then you walked away and left me to deal with the consequences.”

“You seemed to be handling it just fine.”

“Did I? Because from where I was standing, it felt like you threw me to the wolves and then disappeared.”

“You found ways to entertain yourself.”

“Ah.” Her smile is sharp enough to cut. “So you did notice. I was beginning to wonder.”

Heat flares in my chest, angry and possessive. “I noticed.”

“But you didn’t do anything about it.”

“What did you expect me to do?”

“I expected you to act like a husband instead of a business associate.” Sophie straightens, crossing her arms. “But maybe that’s my mistake. Maybe you’re not really my husband at all.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Husbands care when other men touch their wives. They get jealous. They get angry. They don’t stand at the bar drinking whiskey while strangers put their hands all over what’s supposed to be theirs.”

“Maybe,” Sophie continues, her voice dropping to something almost conversational, “you’re not capable of caring about anything that doesn’t directly benefit you. Maybe that’s why you could watch your wife flirt with someone else and feel absolutely nothing.”

“You think I felt nothing?”

“Didn’t you?”

I set the scotch down with enough force that it sloshes against the sides of the glass. “You want to know what I felt?”

“Enlighten me.”

“I felt like putting my hands around that bastard’s throat until he stopped breathing.” The admission comes out rougher than I intended, scraped raw from somewhere deep in my chest. “I felt like dragging you off that dance floor and reminding you exactly who you belong to.”

“But you didn’t,” she says.

“No. I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

Because I’m supposed to be better than that. Because public displays of possessiveness are beneath me.

Because the last thing either of us needs is for me to prove that this marriage has gotten under my skin in ways I never intended.

“Because you’re not really mine, are you, Sophie?” I push away from the table, closing the distance between us. “You’re here because I forced you to be. Because I threatened your family and gave you no choice. Why would I get jealous over a woman who’s only pretending to be my wife?”

“Pretending.” She tilts her head, studying my face. “Is that what I’m doing?”

“Isn’t it?”

“You tell me.” Sophie moves around the table, eliminating the barrier between us. “If I’m just pretending, why does this bother you so much?”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“Liar.” She’s close enough now that I can smell her perfume, something warm and floral that makes my head spin. “You’re furious. I can see it in the way you’re holding yourself, like you’re about to explode.”

“Sophie.”

“What? Are you afraid you might do something you’ll regret?” She reaches out, her fingers brushing against my tie. “Something that might prove you actually give a damn about this marriage?”

My hand snaps up, catching her wrist before she can touch me again. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t point out that you’re jealous? Don’t mention that you’ve been thinking about me in another man’s arms all evening?”

“Stop.”

“Or what?” Her free hand comes up to rest against my chest, right over my heart. “You’ll admit that you want me?”

The chandelier light flickers across her face, highlighting the defiant spark in her eyes and the slight flush in her cheeks. She’s beautiful and infuriating and completely, utterly mine.

Even if she doesn’t want to be.

“Sophie.” My voice is a warning, but she doesn’t back down.

“Say it,” she whispers. “Say you were jealous. Say you wanted to kill him for touching me.”

“I wanted to kill him for touching you.”

Sophie’s eyes widen slightly, as if she didn’t expect me to actually say it.

All the control I’ve been clinging to, all the restraint I’ve been using to keep my hands off her, crumbles like sand.

I release her wrist and cup her face instead, my thumb brushing across her cheek. “Now I want to make sure you remember who you belong to.”

“Do I belong to you?”

“You’re my wife.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

My other hand slides around her waist, pulling her closer. “You belong to me, Sophie. Whether you want to or not.”

Then I kiss her.

I kiss her like I’ve been wanting to all evening. Like I’ve been wanting to since the moment I saw her dancing with someone else. Hard and possessive and desperate, pouring all my frustration and jealousy and need into the connection between us.

Sophie responds immediately, her arms winding around my neck, her body pressing against mine like she’s been starving for this contact. She tastes like champagne and something darker, something that’s purely her.

My hands slide down her back, finding the zipper of her dress. The sound it makes as I pull it down seems impossibly loud in the quiet of the wine cellar.

“Dom,” she breathes against my mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing. Don’t stop.”

The dress pools at her feet, leaving her in nothing but black lace that makes my mouth go dry. She’s perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.

I lift her onto the table, my hands spanning her waist as I step between her legs.

“Why?” I ask, my forehead resting against hers.

“Why what?”

“Why does your body respond to a cruel man?”

Sophie’s hands frame my face, her thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. “Maybe because you’re not as cruel as you want me to think.”

“I forced you to marry me.”

“To protect me.”

“I threatened your family.”

“To keep me close.”

“I exposed you tonight. Put you in danger.”

“To make sure everyone knows I’m yours.”

Her words hit something deep inside me, something I didn’t know was there. She sees through every excuse, every justification I’ve given myself.

“Sophie…”

“I know what you are, Dom. And I know what you’re not.” Her lips brush against mine as she speaks. “So stop trying to convince me you’re a monster.”

“What if I am?”

“Then I guess that makes me one too.”

The lace clings to her skin like a secret I wasn’t supposed to see. Her back is straight, chin slightly lifted, eyes locked on mine like she’s daring me to make the next move.

And God, I want to. But I need to look first. I need to memorize this exact moment before it slips away.

I take her in slowly. The flushed skin on her chest. The way her thighs are parted just enough for me to fit between them. The silk of her bra barely conceals the peaks of her breasts, and her lips are parted, waiting, like she’s holding her breath and hoping I’ll be the one to break it.

She doesn’t speak. Neither do I. Words would ruin it. This moment is bigger than that.

I let one hand slide to her thigh. Just enough contact to ground me. My thumb makes a lazy circle there, dragging over the soft skin with maddening slowness. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t look away.