Page 22 of One Savage Union (Crimson Bonds #1)

LUCIA

A nd by soul, I mean my pussy.

God help me, just remembering it makes my thighs clench and my cheeks burn.

He didn’t just go down on me—he worshipped me. Like a man kneeling at the altar of sin, and I was the only god worth believing in.

He ate like he was starving.

Like every moan from my lips was a prayer, he needed to survive.

The only other thing I’ve seen him attack with that kind of hunger?

His secret stash of chocolate cannolis.

Yeah. I know about those.

He thinks he’s slick—sneaking off to his office at midnight like I won’t notice Mr. Discipline stuffing his face with pastry and sweetened ricotta like it’s a holy ritual.

But I see everything.

I should feel guilty for spying.

I don’t.

This man has stripped me of every ounce of privacy I’ve ever known—down to my fucking panties and my sense of autonomy. The least I’m owed is the satisfaction of knowing he has a weakness that comes wrapped in pastry and shame.

It makes him human. Almost.

Maybe that’s why he works out like a possessed demon every morning at 5 a.m.—to punish his body for the indulgences he pretends don’t exist. He thinks I’m asleep when he slips out of bed, but I’m not.

I hear the soft creak of the mattress, the tension in his breath, the way he paces before pulling on a shirt like he’s already fighting something I can’t see.

He’s restless. Coiled too tight.

Whatever made Rocco Fieri into the man he is—the calculating monster who dragged me into this world and claimed me as his—still follows him into the night.

And yet…

Somewhere in the last few days, something in him changed, too.

He’s still hard. Still ruthless. Still obsessed with owning me like I’m a prized violin he plays only when the world is on fire.

But now, there’s a strange tenderness hiding beneath the steel.

A quiet consideration. He asks if I’m cold.

He brushes my hair off my shoulder before I fall asleep.

He brings me books I never asked for and pretends it’s nothing.

He doesn’t smile—but he sees me now.

And that, somehow, is even more dangerous than his belt or his bullets.

Because the more he acts like I matter, the more I start to wonder what it would feel like to be his wife in every way that counts.

And that is the start of madness.

“Mrs. Fieri, may I come in?”

The knock at my door, alongside Maria’s welcoming voice, coaxes me out of bed for the day. I’m still surprised whenever she refers to me as Mrs. Fieri. I’m Rocco’s wife, but doesn’t she know that it’s all a sham?

When he first introduced us, the day after I arrived, Maria was overjoyed and extremely excited to tell me that Mr. Fieri had never had any women here.

Like I should feel special I was chosen to be tied to a monster in every way conceivable because my father doesn’t give a damn.

Any dreams I had of her being the sweet old lady who would help me escape were dashed the moment I was met with her enthusiastic welcome. No one in this house goes against Rocco’s wishes. No one.

“Yes, Maria. I’m up. You may come in.”

She waltzes in carrying two Lululemon shopping bags and a polite smile.

The seventy-year-old woman moves with the grace of a swan and the speed of a woman half her age.

Every day, she wears her uniform: a sleek black wrap dress with black Louboutin heels.

Her silver hair stays pinned in a perfect Chignon, and she runs this house with an iron fist. She’s the ultimate warm demander.

Where Rocco rules through fear and intimidation, she maintains the staff’s discipline through mutual respect and high expectations.

“I’m happy to see you looking so energetic this morning. Mr. Rocco has asked that you wear these things for your hike today. I hope they are to your liking.”

I guess this means my husband has returned from wherever he's been the past few days. The bastard. I was hiding from him because whenever he’s close my body acts like a two dollar whore. But I liked knowing he was there. He makes me feel safe. When he left, I felt exposed and empty.

On the other hand, I’ve begged to get out of this lovely prison he calls his home. I’m not excited about a hike, but as long as I’m out of this pretty prison. I’m happy. He listened.

Walking over to her, I kiss her cheek hello, and take the two bags from her. “ I’m sure I will love whatever you’ve picked for me, Maria. I always do.”

“Me!” she scoffs and breaks into a bit of laughter before snatching the bags back to walk over to my bed to methodically lay out each piece of athleisure.

“I do not pick out your clothes, Mrs. Fieri. Mr. Rocco does, and with great care.”

My eyes pop open. “Rocco picks out my clothes!”

I don’t know why that knowledge matters to me or why the idea of me wearing something he chose makes me shiver.

I knew he was bossy, and I figured that his telling me what to wear was an extension of his domineering nature.

Knowing that he takes time to pick out each garment himself makes me feel foolish.

Suddenly, I am frustratingly eager to please him.

“Yes, of course he does. Mr. Fieri takes great care with any and all decisions pertaining to your health and well-being.”

I look for hidden meaning behind Maria’s words, but there isn’t any. She’s talking like what she says is straight facts and nothing more or less.

“If that’s all, Mrs. Fieri, I will go and get started with the rest of my day. I will send breakfast up soon. If you need anything else in the meantime, just let me know.”

After I nod and smile, Maria waves goodbye, and I’m left behind with my handpicked costume for the day.

When he disappeared for a few days, I had no idea where he went.

It's not like I could call him since I still don’t have a phone at my disposal.

I didn’t want to care that he left me here alone, but I did.

I spent the two days reading and moping around like I’d lost my best friend until I snapped myself out of it.

For all I know, the man was fucking the woman he really loves and leaving me to stew under the watchful eyes of my babysitters-the bodyguards.

I’m relieved now that I know he’s back. But if I don’t keep a simmering hatred for my husband, I may fall for him, and that won’t do. Before he left, he promised me he would take me outside, just to get me out of the house. Now he tells me it’s a hike.

I’m not sure whether I should be excited or scared.

Before my kidnapping, I counted walking half a mile from my apartment to campus as exercise, but I'm not in the appropriate physical shape for a hike. But against my better judgment, I’m going because I'm excited to experience the Italian coastline with Rocco. He knows everything about the Amalfi Coast, and through listening to the servants, I learned that he cares deeply about the land. He subsidizes approximately fifty lemon groves across the region to keep them profitable. Amalfi’s younger generation has no desire to keep the massive farms running, and the older generation needs help.

Rocco doesn’t want the old ways of farming to die, so he keeps the groves running.

Shit like this keeps me confused about how I feel about him.

No matter how noble his local efforts, I can’t forget to keep my wits about me. This is not the man to fawn over or fall in love with. I’m mad I let my body betray me a few nights ago after dinner.

I never should have fucked him.

It was deliciously good but wrong.

So, so, wrong!

Rocco Fieri is my kidnapper or, at most, a reluctant bodyguard. Husband be damned; if it weren't for my father's blood running through my veins Rocco Fieri wouldn't take two looks at me. I'm convinced of that.

I know nothing of his past or the women he's been with before, but I can guess his type. Model thin, flawless skin, shiny hair, and unparalleled beauty. All the things I am not. It’s clear from his wardrobe and home that he has a distinct aesthetic.

He values beautiful things. If how he treats me is any indication, women are simply beautiful things he collects.

Rocco Fieri doesn't take no for an answer, and the power exuding off him is even sexier than his rock-hard abs, Grecian profile, and strokable hair. Women like power. I have no doubt that Alesandro catches more pussy than Seby Zavala in my beloved Comiskey Park.

My marriage is one of convenience, and I’d do well to remember that. Sometimes, I wish he wouldn't be nice at all because it’s too confusing. Other times, I'm grateful for the reprieve.

I’m not the kind of woman men chase. I am the woman that men overlook.

I'm pretty enough, but I've always been a nerd.

I like classical literature. I collect vintage jewelry and converse with older people about their past experiences.

History fascinates me, and the future scares me.

I'll take a good New York-style pizza over a lobster dinner any day.

I'm proud of my hair, but the maintenance of it doesn't consume me.

Makeup is only a necessity of performance life, and I can't remember the last time I went shopping on purpose. Point being, I'm not your typical woman, and most men don’t know how to approach me. So, they don’t.

Before I was kidnapped, I was comfortable in my obscurity.

I never had to fend off unwanted advances or figure out how to deal with the ones who wanted me.

The opposite sex is a mystery. The only reason I allowed my college boyfriend to take my virginity was to get the ritual over with.

Now, for reasons I’ll never understand, I have a husband who's a walking sexual innuendo, and I’m out of my depth.

He demands all of me, but I can't trust him. I feel like holding back this one thing is keeping him in check. I know it's wild. He’s already fucked me and the man could take it anytime he wants. But, he told me he wouldn’t, and I believe him. That makes me respect him just a little.