Page 45 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

The next morning…

I wake with his scent in my nose, it's warm, dark, and all male.

It reminds me of cedarwood, smoke, and something spiced that clings to his skin no matter how long he's been out of the shower.

I shift just slightly, the soft sheets brushing against my bare skin, and wince.

Every part of me is sore in the most delicious, impossible way.

The ache between my thighs is a sweet reminder. A quiet hum of what he did to me. What we did together. I feel stretched, marked, thoroughly ruined… and I've never felt more whole.

Enrico's arm is heavy around my waist, his body curved against mine like a fortress.

I'm tucked under his chin, our legs tangled.

I stay still, eyes closed, trying to memorize everything about this: the way his chest rises behind me, slow and steady.

The weight of his thigh over mine. The soft grumble he makes in his sleep when I shift too much.

Last night.

Dio mio.

Last night was…

I don't have the words for it. Not even in my head. He was everything. Gentle and demanding. Worshipful and possessive. Rough in a way that made my body tremble, but always careful.

No one's ever looked at me like that before. No one's ever touched me like I was sacred and possessed all at once. I smile into the pillow, giddy and shy and sore. And just like that, my heart does this stupid, fluttering skip.

If I could stay in this bed forever, I would. But even bliss has its shadow. Because then I remember her. Eliza.

Her soft voice as we sat on the edge of her vanity, surrounded by silk and perfume and old jewelry boxes.

There are expectations. One day, he's supposed to marry a mafia princess.

I bite my lip, and her words cut deeper now than they did then.

I respect her too much to go against her, to want something that would upset her.

She has been good to me and kind. She took my family in when she didn't have to.

She's been treating me like her daughter.

She didn't say it unkindly. She didn't even say it to warn me off. But it was a warning, wasn't it? A gentle reminder of what Enrico was born into. What kind of woman he's expected to build an empire with.

Not a nineteen-year-old girl like me.

I glance down at his hand, sprawled across my stomach. So big. So warm. So certain.

His touch tells me I'm his.

But what if that's just for now?

A selfish, shameful thought slides through me: What happens if I let myself believe this could last? That he could really choose me, over tradition, over power, over the kind of woman who could make him stronger in the eyes of the world?

My throat tightens, guilt creeps in where euphoria used to be.

I should be happy. And I am . But the more I fall for him—and I'm falling so hard I might never stop—the more afraid I am that this ends with me standing on the outside of his world, looking in with a broken heart that might never heal again.

As if my hand has a mind of its own, it moves to my middle.

What if? What if I got pregnant last night?

What if I am already carrying his child?

My fingers splay over my stomach, barely pressing, as if I could feel something already.

Which I couldn't. I know that. Logically, it's impossible.

But emotionally? Emotionally, I'm spiraling.

What if there's a life inside me now? A new heartbeat forming because of last night?

I don't know what that would mean. Not fully. Not yet. I'm nineteen. I've never even been allowed to make choices about my own body, my own life—until recently. I'm just now starting to figure out who I am when I'm not a prisoner, a pawn, a bargaining chip.

A baby would change everything.

It would complicate things. It would rip away the pieces of normal I'm just beginning to taste—freedom, passion, possibility. I wouldn't get to be selfish, or scared, or young. I'd have to be strong. I'd have to be steady. I'd have to be the kind of mother I never really had. Yet…

Even now, even with all that fear pressing down on me, I know one thing with complete, bone-deep certainty: if I'm pregnant, I will protect it.

No matter what. I'll fight for it. I'll love it with everything I have, even if I'm not ready, even if I have no idea what comes next.

Because this child—if it exists—would be mine.

Not a tool for someone else's power. Not a hostage. Not a weapon to be used. Mine.

Ours.

And that thought… it steadies me. Not because it would tie Enrico to me forever. I don't want him bound. I want him to choose me, see me. All of me. And still want more.

If this is temporary, I'll survive it. I've survived worse.

But if it's not?

If there's a future here—messy and real and terrifying—I want to be brave enough to reach for it. To believe I deserve it. Even if I'm still figuring out who I am without chains. Even if I'm terrified of the answer.

I shift gently, trying not to wake him. His arm tightens instinctively, pulling me closer.

"Not yet," he murmurs, still half-asleep. His voice is gravel and silk. "Stay with me, Piccolina."

The sound of that nickname—his voice, sleepy and possessive—melts something inside me. I press a kiss to the back of his hand and shut my eyes again.

Maybe I'll let myself pretend a little longer.

For just a few more hours, I can believe that I belong here.

With him. That won't hurt anyone, will it?

In this bed, wrapped in Enrico's arms, I feel like I might finally be more than what was done to me.

I feel like I could be somebody beautiful.

Somebody who is more than I ever dreamed of being.

The world feels perfect for about two more minutes. Then Enrico's phone buzzes, vibrating insistently on the nightstand. He curses under his breath before untangling from me and reaching for it. I try not to stiffen when he sits up, when the warmth of his body disappears from my back.

"Give me a minute," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my shoulder before getting up and striding into the bathroom, phone pressed to his ear. The door clicks shut behind him.

Just like that, the illusion breaks.

I stare at the ceiling, the morning quiet suddenly too loud.

The space where he lay next to me is already cooling, and I hate that I notice.

That I care so much. He said all those beautiful things.

Did all those impossible things to my body.

And I believed every word. But what if it was just that? One night. One perfect, borrowed dream.

Reality always catches up. Doesn't it?

I roll onto my side and immediately wish I hadn't. A sharp, unmistakable ache pulses through me, a soreness that makes me wince and flush all at once. I pull the covers back, and that's when I see it. The towel he must have tucked beneath me at some point in the night. The blood.

Hot shame floods me. I snatch the towel up and fold it over quickly, hiding the evidence even though he clearly already knew. He saw it. Took care of it. But now, in the cold light of day, it feels like a spotlight shining on my inexperience. Like something I should apologize for.

I shove the towel into my small purse. It's not really stealing, is it?

But I don't want the cleaning ladies to find it.

But there is still a larger, now dried spot on the sheet.

Before I have time to contemplate if it too would fit into my purse, the bathroom door opens.

He's in nothing but a pair of black briefs, hair damp where he must've splashed his face, jaw tight from whatever call he just took.

His eyes land on me instantly. "I didn't mean to wake you. Just business."

I nod. "It's okay."

But it's not, not really. The spell is broken. The real world is back, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it.

"I'm just going to take a shower," I mumble, brushing past him.

He doesn't stop me, but I feel the weight of his gaze on my back the whole way to the bathroom. Inside, I shut the door, lean against it for a breath, then take stock.

The bathroom is as perfect as the rest of the suite, marble and glass, and luxury everywhere. On the counter, a second toothbrush, still in its packaging, sits next to a tiny, complimentary tube of toothpaste.

I brush my teeth first, taking time with the small, normal act.

Then I step into the shower and let the warm water sluice over me.

It stings at first. Everything between my thighs is tender.

Overused. Claimed. The thoughts bring a smile to my face.

I'm glad he was my first. I will always have that memory.

I will always cherish it, just like I will never regret it.

The soreness is a physical memory of everything we shared last night. The way he held me. The way he made me feel wanted, desired, his. I run my fingers gently over my skin, a little bruised, a little raw, and so full of things I can't say aloud. I'm not ready to name them yet. But they're there.

No matter what happens today… I'll carry last night with me. Always.

I step out of the shower wrapped in a thick white towel, hair dripping, cheeks pink from both heat and what I'm about to face. My feet barely touch the carpet in the bedroom before I freeze at the sight of Enrico, partially dressed, standing by the bed. Folding. The. Sheet.

The one with the evidence of what happened between us last night.

My mouth dries instantly.

"What… what are you doing?" My voice comes out higher than I intend.

He glances over his shoulder, completely calm. Too calm. "Just folding it."

I narrow my eyes, one hand tightening around my towel. "Why?"

A slow, sinful smile spreads across his face. "I'm going to hang it high from the rooftops, Piccolina . So the whole world knows you're mine."

"Oh hell no." I breathe, not even realizing that I cursed, yet again.

I surge forward, nearly tripping over a forgotten shoe. "You will not! Give me that—Enrico— Enrico! "