Page 23 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

T halted before my apartment door, my gaze glued to the worn edges of the keyhole while my heart raced.

Everything inside me screamed to deny him entry.

Yet I knew it would be futile.

Alessandro was like a cloud of poison gas—unstoppable, destroying everything that stood in his way.

"Carter isn’t even in town, is he?" He leaned casually against the wall beside my apartment door, watching me with a smile so knowing I almost felt foolish.

I shut my eyes, clenched my teeth.

"Don’t you already know?" I muttered as I pulled the key from my pocket.

"Yes, I do," he replied with a devilish grin.

"I was just being polite."

"You’re a ruthless bastard."

A faint smirk flickered at his lips.

"That I am."

The door opened, and it felt like I had invited the darkness itself across the threshold.

Alessandro stepped slowly into my apartment, moving with that effortless certainty that was so uniquely his.

Trivialities like shyness or restraint seemed nonexistent to him.

His sheer size alone commanded authority.

His white shirt stretched slightly over his shoulders, a few buttons undone at the top, revealing a glimpse of his sun-kissed skin. I wanted to study him as thoroughly as a priceless painting—he was the perfect blend of dangerous and irresistible.

His gaze swept through the room with the same razor-sharp focus he’d had in my office, as if he were dissecting every corner of my privacy.

I crossed my arms over my chest, more to give myself some semblance of strength.

This was my apartment.

My domain.

And I wouldn’t let him take command here.

Before he stepped further inside, he slowly took off his shoes.

I leaned against the doorframe and watched him.

It wasn’t the gesture itself, but the way he did it—almost meticulous, as if he had an invisible protocol for how to enter someone else’s home.

A perfectionist through and through.

No man just took off his shoes unprompted. No one except him.

I smirked.

"You’re unbelievable."

"Why?" He straightened, his gaze locking onto mine.

"How can someone with such a filthy nature place so much value on cleanliness at the same time?"

"It’s not just my nature that’s filthy," he murmured suggestively as he brushed past me.

The heat radiating from him, so close, made my skin prickle.

"I need to shower and change," I declared with a hint of sarcasm, raking my eyes over him.

"Thanks to you, I’m not wearing panties anymore."

His smile was so smug I was certain he didn’t regret a single second of his impulsive actions.

He let his gaze drag provocatively over my body before answering with a quirked brow: "As it should be."

Rolling my eyes, I turned toward the bathroom.

"Just stay here and… do whatever it is you do when you’re alone."

"Alone?" His tone was low, almost offended, and then I heard his footsteps behind me.

"Do you really think I’ll just sit around while you shower?"

I stopped and turned to face him.

He stood just a few steps away—too close, as always.

His eyes glittered with amusement.

"Alessandro, I need ten minutes.

Fifteen, tops. Do you think you can handle that?" I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to appear composed even as his gaze dissected me.

He stepped closer until barely any space remained between us.

"I’ll tell you what I can’t handle: sitting in your living room, thinking about all the things I’d rather do with you in the shower."

"What are the odds it’ll actually just be a shower if you follow me into the bathroom?"

He slowly rolled up his sleeves, as if preparing for a challenge.

His grin widened.

"Zero percent."

"Then you’re staying here," I countered with unmistakable emphasis, spun on my heel, and disappeared into the bathroom.

The hot water rushed over my skin, wrapping me in thick steam.

I closed my eyes, trying to shake off thoughts of him—the man who, just meters away, was already moving through my apartment as if it were his own.

The bathroom door opened.

"Alessandro?" I pulled the shower curtain halfway across, peering through the mist.

He lounged in the doorway, arms crossed, as if he’d just happened to wander in.

A crooked grin twitched at his lips.

"Hiding?" he asked, amused, his gaze flickering to my hands, clenched white-knuckled around the fabric.

"It’s only been fifty minutes since I last saw your tits.

I remember exactly how they look." He took half a step closer, his smile broadening.

"I briefly considered letting you have your privacy.

But… decisions that aren’t fun were never my thing."

I opened my mouth to retort—when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

With a glance at the screen, his expression darkened.

"Shit.

Giovanni." His voice had dropped, all playfulness gone.

"This won’t take long." Without closing the door, he answered the call and vanished from sight.

Relieved, I turned back under the water.

But then I looked down—and froze.

The water streamed over my thigh.

Over thin, reddened lines, sharply etched, as if they had always belonged there. An R.

The first letter of his last name.

Carved into my skin.

A choked sound escaped my throat, half sob, half ragged gasp.

I staggered back, pressing my hand over the mark as if I could wipe it away, as if sheer will could undo what he’d done.

But the R remained.

Red.

Indelible.

His brand.

On my skin, in a place that left little room for interpretation.

I rinsed off hastily, my heart hammering against my ribs in fury.

Wrapping the towel tightly around myself, I brushed distractedly over my thigh, feeling the faint sting that reminded me this wasn’t a dream.

I tiptoed into the bedroom.

He stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, his voice calm but ice-cold: "If that’s true, Morales is useless.

We don’t have room for weakness.

He had his chance." His torso tensed slightly, muscles shifting beneath his shirt.

He saw me as I entered, gesturing for me to wait.

I didn’t obey.

Slowly, I stepped closer, raised my hand, and crooked a finger—beckoning him.

A shadow crossed his face.

He wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear, closing the distance with that charged look, as if he thought I meant to seduce him.

"Do you really think he can still handle this?" he murmured to Giovanni while crossing the room.

"It’s about the message, too.

Weakness like this doesn’t go unnoticed by the cartel.

That they got this far is bad enough—it’ll invite copycats.

I don’t have the patience for that. Or do you want more nights like yesterday?" His voice dripped with irony, edged with danger.

Without thinking, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face.

Hard.

A sharp crack echoed in the silence.

He didn’t even flinch.

His dark eyes narrowed.

"One moment," he said quickly into the phone before tossing it carelessly onto the bed.

"What the hell was that?" he growled, flipping me onto my back in one swift motion.

I gasped as he loomed over me.

Furious, I pointed to my thigh. To the R.

His gaze followed my hand.

No remorse.

No apology.

Instead, his lips curled into a filthy smirk.

Slowly, deliberately, he mouthed a single word—soundless, but unmistakable: Beautiful.

"Alessandro!" I spat, but he pressed me deeper into the mattress, and before I could speak again, his hand covered my mouth, silencing me.

His eyes were intense, dark, and he gave a slight shake of his head—a silent command to stay quiet.

"You’ll need to replace Morales," he said calmly to Giovanni, as if nothing had happened.

"Immediately.

You know what that means."

Beneath him, my heart pounded, trapped and motionless.

His words hung in the air, their meaning sinking in slowly.

"Replace him immediately." I knew what that likely entailed—and the thought of it sent a chill through me.

Giovanni answered on the other end, his voice loud, I heard him ask something.

Alessandro listened while continuing to fixate on me, his grip over my mouth remaining firm.

Yet when I shifted slightly to free myself from his hold, he shook his head again.

I paused, but the impulse to resist was stronger.

I sank my teeth into his finger, hard enough for him to feel how serious my protest was.

"Fuck!" His gaze darkened, but Giovanni noticed instantly.

“What was that?” he asked, his voice tinged with irritation.

“Nothing,” Alessandro answered curtly, though I could hear the faint anger in his tone.

Giovanni didn’t relent.

“You sure?” Then he pressed further.

“Are you with her?”

I seized the moment and pushed myself up slightly, trying to move out of his reach—but in one swift motion, he forced me back down, his strength leaving no doubt that I stood no chance.

“Stay where you are,” he whispered, low and threatening, his face close to mine before he spoke into the phone.

“Yes, I’m with her,” he finally said, his voice calm, but I could tell the words came with difficulty.

I froze, unable to stop turning his words over in my mind.

"With her."

This Giovanni knew about me.

Alessandro had spoken of me.

My initial tension slowly dissolved as an entirely new thought took root: I was more to him than I’d realized.

I meant enough that he had brought me into his world, that he had mentioned me—and apparently had no fear of Giovanni knowing.

Giovanni was silent for a moment, then a soft, amused laugh crackled through the line.

Alessandro closed his eyes, exhaled audibly, and rubbed his forehead with two fingers, visibly losing patience.

“Yeah, Giovanni, real funny,” he said dryly.

But Giovanni wasn’t so easily brushed off.

“Tell me,” he began, his voice grinning, “you having trouble over there? Sounds like your little Amazon isn’t quite under control.

Need some pointers?”

Alessandro paused, and his gaze dropped to me.

I felt my body tense as he suddenly flashed a broad, insolent grin.

“My Amazon?” he repeated, laughing so I could hear.

“She’s still putting up a fight, but she’ll learn.

Eventually.”

I made a muffled sound of outrage beneath his hand, my protest unmistakable, but Alessandro only tightened his grip and arched an amused brow.

“Hear that? She’s still practicing her defiance,” he taunted lightly as Giovanni laughed on the other end.

“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full,” Giovanni mused.

“I’ve got it handled,” Alessandro replied with a satisfied smirk.

“Worry about Morales.

And keep me updated.”

Finally, he hung up, tossing the phone aside.

His focus returned to me, his expression hardening.

“Can you not do a single fucking thing I tell you?” he bit out before shoving me back down.

His gaze dragged over my body—lingering on my thigh, on the carved R.

He stilled.

I wrenched free, slapping his hand away.

“Are you out of your mind?” I hissed.

“You don’t get to just—brand me like a goddamn piece of meat!”

“You are meat.” The corner of his mouth curled into a filthy, self-satisfied smirk. “Mine.”

Fury burned hot in my veins.

“You don’t have that right!”

“Don’t I?” His eyes glinted coldly.

Slowly, he lifted his shirt, letting the fabric slide over his muscled torso—until the scar at his side came into view.

The fresh wound I’d given him at Delaney’s party.

The thin, reddened line stood stark against his tanned skin.

“Remember this?” His voice was rough.

“You cut me, Fiona.

I remember the look in your eyes when the blood spilled.” He let the shirt fall.

“So don’t bitch when I return the favor.”

I folded my arms and scoffed softly.

Of course I remembered.

And as much as I wanted to rage—an amused twitch tugged at my lips.

If I was honest, I’d provoked him from the start.

Again and again. I’d struck him, bitten him, needled him until he snapped. And I’d loved it.

Before I could even draw breath, he seized my chin and dragged my mouth to his.

He kissed me like he could claim me with it, like he could brand the truth of my belonging into my skin.

I tasted his anger, his hunger, and met them with my own.

I opened for him, kissed him back with the same fire, nipped playfully at his sinfully soft lip.

He froze, licked the sting away, then snapped his teeth near my face.

“I’ll muzzle you if you bite me again.” Then he shoved off me abruptly.

“Where are you going?” I asked, still breathless.

“Shower.” He stood, raking a hand through his disheveled hair.

“A drink would be good.” He was already halfway to the bathroom when I sat up and teased, “What’s the gentleman drinking?”

He paused, half-turning back, eyes glinting with faint amusement.

“Scotch,” he said, calm, with that effortless certainty that was so uniquely his.

I shook my head, unable to suppress a smirk.

“Of course.

Nothing less.

Should I light you a cigar, too?”

“If you’d like,” he countered with a slow, arrogant grin before disappearing into the bathroom without another word.

I retrieved a heavy crystal glass from the cabinet—the kind reserved for moments exactly like this.

Ice clinked softly as I dropped cubes into the glass, then poured the Scotch over them, watching the amber liquid swirl with the melt.

As I set the glass on the counter, footsteps sounded behind me.

I turned—and there he stood.

Barefoot, a towel slung low on his hips, water still glistening on his skin.

His hair was damp, tousled, droplets trailing down his shoulders.

The bandage over his gunshot wound stood out like a silent warning—a reminder of what I was dealing with.

“I’m staying tonight,” he said suddenly, no warning, no hesitation—just that absolute certainty with which Alessandro said things that would’ve been overbearing from anyone else.

“What?” I blinked. “No.”

“Yes.” He stepped closer, casually reaching for the glass on the counter.

His fingers curled around it with the same ease with which he upended my life.

I stared at him in disbelief.

Laughter twitched in my gut, but I didn’t know if it was relief or madness.

"So it’s that simple? You announce it—and I just nod obediently?"

He merely shrugged.

"Why not?" A crooked smile flickered across his lips as he swirled the glass in his hand.

"We both know you want it.

You’re just looking for a good excuse to outmaneuver your pride." His tone was neutral, but his eyes glinted—that sharp, dangerously ironic spark that flared whenever he knew exactly how much power he held—and reveled in wielding it.

"Scotch, by the way, is served at room temperature," he remarked coolly, tilting the glass as his gaze skimmed the melting ice cubes with a mix of disdain and regret. "Now it’s ruined."

I stared at him, then the glass, then back at him.

"Ruined?" I repeated skeptically.

"You’re drinking Scotch, not liquid gold."

He arched a brow, effortlessly, almost amused.

"Good Scotch is liquid gold."

"Oh, please."

I leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, my gaze scrutinizing his face.

"Are you always this decadent, or is this your way of showing off?"

"Who would I be trying to impress?" He relaxed against the countertop, glass in hand, flashing a small, superior smile.

"It’s a matter of taste."

"Then warm it up," I said with feigned innocence.

"Preferably with your hands.

Or tuck it under your armpit."

His eyes narrowed slightly before a dangerous smile grazed his lips.

"If I use my hands, Fiona… it won’t be for drinks." He drained the rest, set the glass down calmly.

"I’ll get my things."

"You have things in your car?" I asked, my voice dripping with unmistakable surprise.

Or maybe horror.

He turned toward the door, tossing a grin over his shoulder.

"I’m always prepared."

I crossed my arms, tracking him with my eyes as he walked calmly to the door, opened it, and disappeared.

He returned moments later, a black duffel bag in one hand, his laptop in the other.

I lingered in the kitchen for a beat, leaning against the edge of the counter, watching him with a frown as he strode purposefully into the bedroom, tossed the bag onto the bed, and unzipped it.

A quick glance at the contents was enough: toothbrush, towel, fresh clothes.

"That looks suspiciously organized," I remarked dryly, finally following him into the room.

"Of course it’s organized," he replied, sliding his suit pants off his hips and replacing them with black sweatpants.

Then he grabbed a plain black T-shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.

I crossed my arms, studying him.

"Does your perfectly timed maneuvering have anything to do with the fact that Carter suddenly had to fly to California?"

He stilled.

Fingers still on the bag, movement frozen.

Then he looked at me—with that expression he’d mastered: a mix of innocence, amusement, and ice-cold poker face.

"California?" He raised his brows.

"Interesting.

I have no idea where Carter is."

"Alessandro."

He sighed, allowing a thin, almost entertained smile as he adjusted the contents of the bag.

"Fine," he conceded.

"A mutual client has a major project in California.

And if I have to work with him, it’ll be on my terms."

"By sending him across the country while you get comfortable here?"

He paused, shot me a brief glance—the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Indirectly." Then he zipped the bag shut and stretched.

"I left him the parts that need handling on-site.

Nothing beyond his… limited comprehension."

I arched a brow.

"While you fuck Carter’s girlfriend?"

He turned to face me fully.

"Not yet.

But if that’s what you want, let’s not waste time."

I shook my head, trying to ignore the familiar prickling his voice sent through my stomach.

"How can anyone be so goddamn shameless?" I muttered—more to myself than to him.

"Shameless?" He shrugged, retrieving his laptop and charger from the bag.

"I call it efficiency through foresight." His grin deepened as we returned to the living room.

I followed.

The fabric of his black T-shirt stretched across his torso, and even in sweatpants, he looked like he could take someone down without breaking a sweat.

He opened the laptop, typed something, then leaned back, studying me.

"A drink would be good."

"Oh?" I stared at him for a long moment before finding words.

"What are you? A prince? I’m definitely not fetching you another one."

"I’m not a damn prince." A brief twitch at the corner of his mouth before he continued.

"I’m the king."

I burst into laughter.

"The king? Because you’re ruling my living room in sweatpants?" I pointed at the empty glass beside him.

"You called my Scotch ‘ruined’ with a tone like I’d insulted a world religion."

"Scotch on ice is a crime against humanity." He said it dead serious.

"Exactly." I crossed my arms.

"And that’s why the king serves himself from now on." I lifted my chin, eyes glinting.

"And bring me a glass of water while you’re at it."

He paused mid-motion, the fridge door in hand, half-turning to shoot me a look over his shoulder.

"Ah.

So you want your guest to serve you?"

I shook my head, grinning.

"Wrong.

The unwanted guest invited himself in but apparently still enjoys royal courtesies." I leaned back, my voice laced with mockery.

"I’m your queen.

So go on—do your duty."

He let the fridge door swing shut slowly.

With unhurried steps, he closed the distance, set the water on the table, then leaned down toward me.