Page 22 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

His grin faded, and he straightened.

Almost as if he didn’t believe me.

"That can’t be.

I’d know."

"How would you know?" I snapped.

"Because I know everything."

"Clearly not." I sucked in a breath, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Your control freak tendencies are unbearable, you know that?"

"When did this happen?" he asked, his tone serious now, the anger lines on his forehead deepening.

"Recently," I answered, running a hand through my hair.

"I trusted him blindly.

I had no idea he was just using my involvement to improve liquidity."

Alessandro shook his head slowly, his expression tense.

"He’s using you."

"And you’re not?" My voice came out rougher than I intended.

He looked at me as if I’d just handed him the perfect opening.

"I’m using you?" His eyes darkened, flicking to my lips before returning to my gaze.

"Maybe I should start..."

My heart skipped a beat as a soft click sounded.

I turned my head and realized the doors had locked.

"What are you doing?" I asked rhetorically, tugging at the handle. Useless.

"Locking the doors," he said calmly, his gaze dark and molten.

"Why?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Because you look fucking irresistible in that skirt." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

"And I'm going to use you now.

Exactly how you need it." "Alexander..." The tension in my voice was unmistakable.

"You're injured."

He looked at me as if that were irrelevant.

"That won't save you now." His gaze burned into me.

"So stop making excuses."

His hand rose, tracing my cheek.

My body responded instantly, arching into his touch as though I belonged there.

It had been barely 24 hours.

Yet it felt like an eternity.

"No one fucks here...

we're in the middle of a pedestrian—"

"Shhh..." His fingers pressed against my jaw, silencing me.

His thumb dragged provocatively over my lower lip.

I leaned in, kissing him hard.

Wildly.

Every fiber of me wanted him. My hands slid down his chest, lower, over the hard planes of his abdomen. There—the bandage. Proof he wasn't invincible. Without hesitation, I deliberately pressed down.

He inhaled sharply, his body tensing beneath me, head snapping back.

"Fuuuuck, Fiona!" he growled, pain and fury flashing in his eyes.

I pulled back with a mocking grin.

"I'm a sadist, Alexander.

You knew that." A short laugh escaped me.

I meant it—and reveled in it.

Especially with him. "This is going to be so hot with you barely mobile and in pain..."

His gaze narrowed, the ice in it making my skin prickle.

"Don't worry.

I'm mobile enough to make you scream." A pause.

His stare drilled into me.

"I don't think you know what a sadist is."

Before I could blink, he yanked me—one sharp, precise movement—and suddenly I was straddling him.

My knees hit the seat, my skirt riding up to my waist.

I landed exactly where he wanted me.

His gaze slid slowly over me, lingering on my hips.

"Perfect."

His hands clamped around my wrists, the pain I'd inflicted already forgotten.

All that remained was that ruthless determination radiating from his every movement.

Leaning sideways with one hand, he popped open the door compartment.

"What are you doing?" I asked—my voice cracking more than I wanted to admit.

No answer.

Instead, he pulled out something black and slender—a zip tie.

My eyes widened.

"Alexander, you can't be serious—"

I tried twisting free, but it was useless.

He was faster.

Stronger.

Precise.

The way he looped the plastic, how he secured my wrists in one fluid motion—this wasn’t improvisation. This was practiced.

"You won’t do this." My voice shook, more fury than fear.

"Oh, I will." He practically purred it.

Zip.

The tie cinched tight."Take this off!" I hissed, fury lacing every syllable.

I yanked, twisted against the restraint—but it held fast.

He leaned back, watching me with that infuriatingly smug look as I straddled him.

His hand fisted in my hair, dragging me closer.

His fingers tangled in the strands while his teeth grazed my lower lip—not tenderly, but as a promise of what was to come.

At the same time, his other hand tightened the zip tie around my wrists another notch.

I gasped, tearing my mouth from his.

"Let me go." The words came out sharp—dripping with defiance, with the last shred of control I refused to surrender.

He paused.

Savored my demand, my helplessness.

"Hard pass." His voice was a rough murmur, laced with that taunting smile he only wore when he knew he'd won.

It was that exact combination of ice, control, and quiet arrogance that never failed to ignite me—both to white-hot rage and reckless arousal.

I surged forward, kissing him hard, as if I could steal something back.

Our tongues clashed like opponents, not seeking connection but conquest.

This wasn’t a loving kiss. It was a declaration of war. Mine.

I bit down—harder than I should have.

Maybe harder than I'd ever dared.

The metallic tang of blood flooded my tongue instantly—warm, unmistakable, forbiddenly good.

He jerked beneath me, a rough gasp tearing from his throat as he wrenched his head sideways.

"Fuuuuck!" His voice was raw, laced with pain—but not an ounce of weakness.

He dragged his tongue slowly over the bleeding cut on his lip, savoring not just the iron taste but the transgression itself.

The look in his eyes—dark, relishing—seeped under my skin like a threat.

Then his mouth twisted into a smile, half pain, half madness. "You goddamn... vicious little cunt."

I lifted my chin, pulse hammering at my temples, but my smile was steel.

"'Cunt'?" My voice was soft, almost sweet.

"How...

chivalrous."

With a sharp jerk of his knee, he forced my legs apart, leaving me exposed before him.

My skirt strained against my thighs, the sudden chill of air on bare skin hitting like a slap.

I felt my pulse hammering in my throat as he leaned forward slowly, reaching into the footwell.

When he straightened, a black knife glinted in his hand.

He turned it deliberately, studying the blade like an artist contemplating a brushstroke before committing to canvas.

"Two sadists playing a game." His voice was velvet, a quiet current simmering beneath the surface.

"And you started it." The words slipped from his lips, dark and measured, as if he'd been waiting for this invitation all along.

"You do like knives, don't you, baby?"

I meant to answer, to defy him—but my body had already betrayed me.

My breath came in ragged bursts, my gaze locked on the blade as he lowered it slowly.

The cold steel met the inside of my thigh, where my skin was most vulnerable.

At first, just the touch—so alien it almost felt tender.

I held my breath, didn’t dare move. Not from fear, but to preserve this moment, this fever-clear sliver of time suspended between madness and craving.

Then—the first cut.

Not deep—but sharp enough to split skin.

A thin line of pain flared, bright as light through a crack in darkness.

I gasped, my back arching, but there was no escape—not with his thighs trapping me, not with my wrists bound, and certainly not with the molten heat surging through me like wildfire.

He watched me.

With an intensity that slit me open before the blade ever did.

And then came the second cut—a short, precise stroke, set diagonally to the first line.

I felt my skin react, the burning twisting into something dangerously close to arousal.

The third cut went deeper.

Not physically—but in the way he delivered it.

Slow, with deliberate relish.

I felt the pressure, the sharpness, the yielding of my skin, the quiet drag and then the warm pulse as blood gathered beneath the surface.

But it was the fourth cut that changed everything.

Shorter, more precise, as if he only needed to place one final accent.

I felt the lines on my skin connecting, forming a shape.

They burned like trails of fire beneath my flesh, searing a pattern deep into me.

I trembled—not from fear, not even from pain—but because my body no longer knew what to do with everything it felt.

The blade still rested against my skin, ready for more.

My breath was uneven, my vision blurred, my core a churning sea of contradiction and want.

Alessandro leaned in slowly, until his forehead nearly touched mine.

His gaze was calm, but his eyes raged with a storm, black and fathomless as an abyss.

"Four cuts.

You carry something of me now—on your skin, whether you want it or not."

I didn’t dare look down.

Then he let the tip drag lower.

With one precise slice, he severed the fabric of my panties, leaving them useless and torn away between us.

A gasping sound escaped me.

His fingers dug into my flesh without mercy, as if he meant to rip out every last shred of resistance.

With a single, forceful yank, he hauled me up, threw me onto my stomach, sideways across the cramped backseat—bound, scraped raw, face pressed into leather that smelled of heat and him.

My wrists lay against my back, bound in plastic, silently rebelling against what my body had already accepted.

I was his—whether I wanted it or not.

But I did. And how.

The zip tie burned deeper into my skin with even the slightest movement.

Every fiber of my body was taut, exposed, stretched between pain and longing.

I was trapped—and yet freer than I’d ever been.

Free of thought, of limits, of everything except what he was doing to me.

He freed himself from his pants, dragged me backward by my bound arms against him as if I were a possession he was reclaiming.

And then he thrust into me—hard, deep, unrelenting.

No hesitation, no warning, just the brutal invasion of his lust into my heat, and I couldn’t scream, could only gasp as my body convulsed against the loss of control.

His grip turned iron, his movements rhythmic and merciless.

With every stroke, he made me feel how thoroughly I belonged to him, how deep his hunger for me ran.

I tried to turn my head away, to escape, to escape him—but his hand clamped around my neck, forcing me brutally back into the present.

His teeth met my skin, not gently, but demanding, leaving behind a trail of pressure, pain, and his goddamn will.

He wasn’t gentle.

He was a storm, sweeping everything away.

A burning grew inside me, wider, deeper, unbearable—not just in my body but beneath my skin, where he had already claimed me. He filled me, in every way, demanded, possessed, forced me into a craving that threatened to tear me apart.

His breath hit my skin, hot and uneven, as his body strained over mine.

The tightness of the car, the heat, the greed—it all became a sealed space with no escape.

And I didn’t want to escape.

I only wanted to sink deeper into this madness, deeper into his violence, deeper into the ecstasy that hurt so damn much.

With a sudden motion, he yanked my hair, tore my head back, forced me to look at him.

"Look at me," he commanded, and I obeyed because I couldn’t do otherwise.

His gaze devoured me.

Black with hunger, with control, with a greed that consumed me.

And I let it.

I was no longer Fiona.

I was only body, only reaction. My gasping breath grazed his skin, my nails clawed desperately into the fabric of his shirt, searching for anchor in a moment that offered none. His hands were everywhere—demanding, possessive, absolute. His thrusts grew deeper, as if he meant to split me open, as if he had to shatter me to finally pull me into himself.

"You.

Are.

Mine," he rasped against my ear, and the words seared like fire down my spine. "Say it."

I bit my lip, wanted to keep control, wanted to clutch the last shreds of my pride crumbling somewhere between pleasure and pain.

But his grip on my neck tightened, dragged me closer, forced me to feel his breath, his heat, his violence.

"Say you belong to me."

"No," I gasped.

It was more a whisper, a final rebellion.

But it was real.

My body might have been his long ago, but my pride, my soul—he would never own those.

I hoped.

His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensed, then his tone grew quieter—more dangerous.

"Fiona." Just my name.

Yet in that single word lay everything: possession, threat, promise.

Then he paused—only for a fraction of a second—before his hand came down full-force on my left buttock.

The sound reverberated through me, a sharp crack followed by searing pain that forced a loud gasp from my lips.

"I...

won't...

say it." My voice was strained, defiant, but it trembled.

He gave me that dangerous, dark smile only he could muster.

"Oh yes.

You will."

And he followed through—three more strikes, swift and merciless.

My entire body burned, clenched.

I wasn’t sure what shook me more—the pain, my pride, or the deep, hot wave of pleasure rolling through my core.

"Should I stop?" he whispered.

As for the pain on my backside—absolutely yes—but it only stoked the fire inside me higher, so I answered with a soft "No..."

He leaned in, his lips meeting my shoulder, his teeth sinking into my skin as he intensified his rhythm, driving me relentlessly into a sea of heat and desire.

A loud moan escaped me—from pain.

And pleasure.

The skin on my shoulder ached under his teeth, yet his cock sent waves of pure ecstasy through my nerves.

My nails scraped over the hard plane of his stomach pressed tightly against me, and I felt every last shred of resistance within me melting under his control.

"Say it, Fiona." His voice was no longer a whisper, no coaxing—just a command, cold and unyielding, sharp as steel.

With every thrust, he pushed deeper into me, demanded, claimed, took not just my body but everything I believed myself to be.

"Say it, or I won’t stop."

I pressed my lips together, bit down so hard I tasted blood.

I didn’t want to say it.

I didn’t want to give it to him.

But my body had long since surrendered, arching against the last remnants of defiance inside me.

A sound—half moan, half cry—broke from my throat, and then the words slipped out, fractured but sincere: "I... belong to you."

For a moment, he stilled.

Just one heartbeat.

Then I heard it in his voice—the flash of triumph, the ominous glow of pure satisfaction.

"Good girl," he murmured darkly.

"Now you’ll feel it."

He dragged me against him, his body slamming into mine, hard, merciless—every thrust tore me further from reality, left nothing behind but heat and chaos.

All I could feel was him—his skin, his breath, his untamed desire that stripped me layer by layer until nothing remained but what he awakened in me: a wild, untamed longing to let go, to surrender every last shred of control until nothing existed but him.

And as I unraveled beneath his hands, he gave me something intoxicating—permission to want everything, to take everything I craved.

He gave me the certainty that I didn’t have to hide my hunger, the freedom to abandon myself to my lust without fear, without shame, without remorse.

In his darkness, I found the right to remake myself.

I gasped for air, my back arching, my core in flames.

I was no longer capable of lying, not even of fighting. Only of confession.

"Alessandro—" A ragged sound.

"Fuck… I’m yours."

He let it carry him, fucked me in a brutal rhythm that was more than sex.

It was branding.

A surrender that felt like freedom because I had chosen it.

He moved inside me—ravaging and relentless.

His breath grew faster, uneven, scorching my skin like embers as his fingers twisted deep in my hair, forcing my face into the leather seat. I felt myself tipping, my body tightening around him, clenching as if my very core refused to ever let him go.

I collapsed beneath him, my face pressed against the scorching leather, my entire body trembling, twitching, surrendering—and more fulfilled than ever.

He followed mere seconds later.

One last, deep thrust, his grip tightening further, as if he needed to cling to me.

I felt him shudder inside me, tremble, then collapse—heavy and warm against me, like a warrior returning from an especially brutal battle.

His hands remained on my skin. Not possessive. Just there. As if I were his anchor.

For a moment, a shimmering silence settled over everything—broken only by our ragged, uneven breaths.

The air in the car was thick with heat, sweat, and the lingering aftermath of what had just happened between us.

I twisted onto my back, my body still burning, my skin tingling everywhere he had touched—and even where he hadn’t touched, only marked.

Slowly, I turned my head, searching for his gaze.

He lay beside me, half-propped up, his shoulders tense, his breath still rough.

"You’re madness in its purest form," I finally whispered hoarsely, my lips still raw from the battle we called tenderness.

A rough, breathless laugh escaped him, as if he could hardly believe what I did to him.

With a firm grip, he pulled me toward him by my wrists.

"You have no idea what you’re doing to me," he gasped, strained.

"With you...

I’m crossing lines I never thought I would.”

I said nothing.

Could say nothing.

My body was still a burning field of tremors and exhaustion.

He reached to the side, picked up the knife he’d used to mark me earlier, and with a quick motion, sliced through the zip tie.

The tension at my wrists eased, but the pain remained—in the form of two dark red welts, seared into my skin like memories.

I let my arms drop, limp, took a deep breath as my head fell back against the window frame.

"Great," I muttered with an ironic snort.

"I look like I’ve been interrogated in Guantánamo.

There’s no way I can go back to the office like this."

Alessandro only grinned wider—a look so devilish and satisfied, as if that had been his exact intention.

"So fucking beautiful." Slowly, his gaze traveled over my body, half-bare, sweat-slicked and marked before him.

I could practically feel how much he loved every bruise, every trace, every twitch.

"You… you cut through my panties," I blurted out, stunned, trying to gather myself.

"You owe me a blouse—and a pair of panties now."

He was just undoing the top button of his shirt when I saw it.

A dark, slowly spreading stain on the white fabric—deep red.

"What the hell…?" I jerked upright, exhaustion instantly replaced by shock, my blood turning to ice.

"Oh my God, Alessandro! You’re bleeding!" My voice nearly cracked with panic.

His eyes followed my gaze, dropping to the dark red stain at his side—then he cursed under his breath, more annoyed than concerned.

With a sharp motion, he shoved the door open and stepped out without another word about it.

I stared after him in disbelief as he strolled to the trunk with infuriating calm, rummaged through it, and returned with a first-aid kit like he’d just scraped his knee.

"What… what are you doing?"

"Getting bandages," he muttered, as if this were the most normal response to a gunshot wound.

He set the supplies on the backseat, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it free from his waistband in one fluid motion.

I sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the bandage—soaked through, dark red over his left flank.

But it wasn’t the wound that paralyzed me.

It was the body beneath it.

Muscles, hard and defined, carved like stone over his ribs, his chest, his abdomen.

"You’d better get used to blood around me," he said with a roguish smirk, pouring disinfectant over his hands as if this were just another routine emergency.

I said nothing, just kept staring, torn between slapping him and kissing him.

He peeled off the sodden bandage, examining the wound with a practiced eye, his face utterly still—no flinch, no sound.

Just focused precision.

"I don’t even want to know how many times you’ve done this," I said dryly when I finally found my voice.

He shot me a knowing smile.

"Enough to do it blindfolded."

I gaped at him, speechless.

"That’s it," I insisted firmly.

"You’re getting in the passenger seat right now, and I’m taking you to a hospital."

He just shook his head as he prepped the gauze.

"Don’t make a scene, Fiona.

I can handle this kind of wound better than some understaffed hospital with an overworked intern."

My stomach turned as he probed the open injury with the same ease as adjusting his watch.

I looked away, shaking my head.

"God, that’s disgusting," I muttered, grimacing.

Alessandro laughed, deep and unbothered.

"Disgusting, huh?" He tightened the bandage around his side without so much as a blink, then met my eyes—amusement glinting in his.

"Then you really shouldn’t stick around when I need to pay someone back."

He didn’t miss the way my stomach lurched.

"Get in the front.

I’ll take you home."

I hesitated another second, revolted, before climbing over the center console and dropping heavily into the passenger seat.

"Not like I’ve got anything left under this damn skirt anyway, since I just had to fuck Miami’s biggest psycho." I yanked the fabric down as far as it would go, but no amount of cloth could hide how exposed I felt.

"What did you say?" came from the trunk.

"Nothing!" I could do without another argument.

My body felt heavy and drained.

He slid carefully into the driver's seat.

Wearing a pristine white new shirt.

"You don’t actually keep a wardrobe in your car too, do you?" I asked, tilting my head back to study him.

"Only in my work car," he laughed, amused.

"Right," I muttered sarcastically, letting my head drop against the seat as I watched him from the corner of my eye.

"For all the dirty jobs, huh?"

A crooked grin formed on his lips.

"For whatever’s necessary." He sat there as if nothing had happened, hands loose on the wheel, his white shirt neatly smoothed out again.

It was almost absurd how innocent he looked now—almost respectable—when he was the absolute devil.

Only the strands of his hair fell carelessly to the side, untamed and reckless.

Wild. Just like him.

"That hairstyle… suits you better," I remarked dryly, still watching him.

"Way better than that slicked-back nonsense.

Looks like you just rolled out of bed—or straight out of hell."

His eyes flicked toward me, glinting.

"A skirt with no panties suits you better than those stiff office suits you usually wear."

"Deep down, I’m a refined person.

It’s only around you that I turn into—"

"—an insatiable nymphomaniac." His grin widened, and for a moment, a comfortable lightness filled the car.

"Alessandro…" I began hesitantly, "I want to finally get to know you.

Really know you."

He shot me a brief sidelong glance, lips curling into a wide smirk.

"Haven’t you already?"

I laughed softly.

"I know your body—your madness, your passion, your power games.

But I don’t know you, the person." A brief silence.

Then, quiet and teasing: "I know your cock, but not your heart."

His laughter filled the car.

"That’s enough, isn’t it? What do you want to know?"

"How old even are you?" I asked bluntly.

He threw me a brief, surprised look, as if he hadn’t expected that question. "34."

"I don’t believe you," I said, raising an eyebrow.

"You’re way too… jaded."

"Experienced?" he cut in, a mischievous smile on his lips.

"Arrogant," I corrected.

"Competent."

I sighed and shook my head.

"That too, yes," I admitted, studying him.

"Don’t you want to know my age?"

He chuckled low, shaking his head as he turned his gaze back to the road.

"I already know."

"Of course you do," I muttered.

"Because you obviously know everything."

"I have to know everything," he replied calmly.

"It’s the only way to survive in my world."

"And your family?" I asked, my voice softening.

"What were they like?"

He hesitated before answering.

"Not what you’d call normal," he said simply.

"Family gatherings usually ended in gunfire."

I swallowed.

"There was no room for feelings.

Love, affection—all the things a child should have—were considered weaknesses.

A childhood? I didn’t have one.

I had to learn to hold my own early."

His words left me pensive, and my gaze drifted back to the road.

His gaze flicked to me, then back to the road.

"And you?" he asked abruptly, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of gravity.

"What was your childhood like?"

I hesitated, my eyes avoiding his.

"Why do you want to know?" I countered, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

He didn’t relent, his grip tightening on the wheel.

"You want to know me, Fiona.

Then the cards should be laid bare on both sides."

"You already know the ending.

But it was...

always difficult," I started carefully.

"My father was violent for as long as I can remember.

Every day, we waited for him to explode. If there wasn’t a real reason, he’d explode just because."

His eyes narrowed.

"What was it like when you came home without him that day?"

"My mother and I...

we just looked at each other.

No words were needed.

She must have sensed it instinctively." My thoughts drifted back to that darkest chapter of my life.

I could see my mother’s face as clearly as if she stood before me—her expression a mix of relief, worry, but also fear. As if she couldn’t quite believe we were finally free of him. "We never spoke about it. Not once."

His jaw worked, and I watched his fingers flex against the steering wheel.

"Hard times forge hard people," he finally mused.

"Siblings?"

"No. You?"

"None.

There’s a half-brother.

The less I see of him, the better."

"Where are you from originally? You’re Italian, right?"

"Florence.

That’s where the family estate is."

"Family estate...

sounds like another modest property..."

"Modest—you could say that.

It's a 16th-century palazzo.

Big, old, crammed with history—and the souls of the Russo family."

"Souls?"

"Every room has stories to tell, and most of them aren’t fairy tales."

"Sounds like you don’t particularly like the place."

"I don’t.

And yet...

it’s part of me." His words were thoughtful, almost reluctant.

"It’s hard to let go of something so deeply rooted in your blood."

"When was the last time you were there?"

"A few months ago," he answered tersely, offering no further detail.

"Don’t you miss it?" I asked softly, trying not to sound intrusive.

He scoffed, a rough laugh escaping him.

"Florence, maybe.

But not what waits for me there.

Tangled alliances, power games, a whole lot of bastards who’d rather see me dead.

It’s a fucking shark tank. Compared to that, Miami’s a playground."

"So that’s why you came here?"

"Partly.

I wanted to build something of my own.

Separate from my family’s...

enterprises.

The world changes. What was a sure bet twenty years ago comes with new challenges now. More competition, shifting markets. Everything’s in flux."

"What kind of enterprises are we talking about?" I tried to sound casual.

He shot me a wolfish grin.

"Nice try, Fiona."

"Why can’t you just say it? You torture arms dealers—it’s not like I still think you’re a saint."

"It’s too layered.

Not just one industry, not just one business.

It’s a web.

With many...

fascinating threads."

"And that’s definitely the understatement of the year."

"It’s the simple version.

And all you need to know.

You should accept that I can’t spell out every detail for you." His tone was so sharp it stung.

"And that gives you the right to snap at me? Your disrespect still makes me sick." For a moment, I’d felt closer to him.

But with one sentence, he’d shoved me away again.

"Then let me put it this way: the sooner you learn not to stick your nose into my affairs, the better for you."

"Coming from you, that’s rich.

You called my boss when I cut contact with you—remember? You don’t ask my age because you already know it.

You’re shocked I’m partnered at Carter’s firm, since of course you’d have that intel.

And you drive me home without ever once asking for my address—" My voice rose, furious.

"You have the audacity to tell me to stay out of your business? You’re fucking unhinged!"

His expression darkened.

"You’re not getting it.

You and I aren’t the same.

The less you know, the safer you are."

"Stop treating me like I’m stupid.

You’re a goddamn control freak.

And you can’t stand rejection.

Christ, I’d have paid to see your face when I walked out the morning after our first night." A vindictive smile curled my lips.

"Says the woman who picks men she can train like lapdogs."

"Lapdogs don’t get put down for aggression or disobedience," I countered coldly.

He shook his head with an amused smirk.

"Yes, you’ve already got one who sits pretty when you tell him to." His gaze flicked to me.

"And you’re bored.

So bored that you’re sitting here next to me—the one who’ll never obey you."

He pulled up to my apartment and killed the engine before turning to me. "Well?"

"Well what?" I snapped.

"Can I come up?"

The courtesy in his question caught me off guard.

Letting him into my space felt wrong—like surrendering my last stronghold, the final shred of privacy he hadn’t already invaded.

And yet, I wanted him with me every second.

Still, it didn’t feel right.

I scrambled for an excuse. "Alessandro, I can’t. Carter could show up any minute."

He arched a brow, a crooked smile playing on his lips.

"Perfect chance to convince him your warnings about me were...

misplaced."

"Not funny."

"No, it’s not.

Stop pushing me away."

"Me push you away? That’s your specialty." My voice turned razor-sharp.

"You manipulate me.

Use your goddamn...

sex to keep me hooked, then shut down the second it’s about more."

His expression didn’t waver.

No defense, no argument.

Just that impenetrable wall that drove me mad.

"That’s exactly what I mean.

You draw me in, then...

nothing.

You’re a fucking vampire, Alessandro.

You drain me, every time."

He studied me with icy detachment.

"Do you even hear yourself?"

"Yes." My hands clenched into fists.

"And I don’t have the energy to fight about this with you right now."

He folded his arms deliberately, emphasizing his resolve.

"I’m not leaving."

I glared at him.

"You’re impossible."

Finally, I stepped out of the car and headed for the entrance.

Every footstep felt heavier, like I was walking myself into a trap.

I didn’t want him in my apartment.

But the sound of his footsteps behind me confirmed what I already knew—he’d tear down this last boundary too, without hesitation.