Page 58 of Ruined Vows (Borrelli Mafia #5)

BIANCA

NO SUCH THING AS SAFE

H e returns from war. He looks tired, but he lifts me into his arms, carrying me across the room like I weigh nothing, laying me down across the bed like I’m something precious. Like I’m breakable.

He covers me with his body, kissing me deeply, his mouth claiming mine in a way that sets me on fire. His hands slide under the gown, slow and reverent, baring my skin inch by inch like he’s unwrapping a secret.

And I am—his secret, his storm, his sanctuary.

“I need you,” he says, voice raw. “Tell me you need me, too.”

“I do,” I whisper, reaching for him. “God, I do.”

My back arches into his touch, a gasp catching in my throat as his hands roam lower, dragging every ounce of hesitation from my bones.

He touches me like he already knows — like he mapped my body in another life and never forgot a single place I wanted him.

Every place I ache, he’s there before I can even ask.

His mouth finds my neck, hot and insistent, and then he’s kissing down, over my collarbone, lower still, and any words I might’ve had scatter from my mind like ash in a storm. There’s nothing left but sensation — no air, no thought, no restraint—just heat.

“You’re mine,” he growls against my skin, voice rough with need, possessive in a way that makes something primal inside me unravel. “You’ve always been mine.”

The way he says it—like it’s a vow, a warning, a fucking command that makes me tremble. I can't speak. Can’t do anything but cling to him as the heat between us grows unbearable. It's wild. Messy. Ravaging. His name spills from my lips like a prayer, over and over, a litany of surrender.

“Say it,” he demands, holding my face so I can’t look anywhere but him. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” I breathe, voice wrecked, lips trembling. “I’m yours.”

His eyes burn as he takes me in — all of me, bare and begging beneath him. “No one else gets this. No one touches you like I do. No one sees you like I do.”

“I don’t want anyone else,” I gasp as his mouth claims mine again, bruising and desperate. “Just you.”

He moves inside me like it’s the last time he ever will — like he’s trying to burn his name into every inch of me, like he’s been starving and I’m the only thing that’s ever fed him. Desperation claws at the edges of every kiss, every thrust, every sound torn from our throats.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he mutters against my skin, voice breaking with each word. “You ruin me.”

My nails dig into his back, anchoring myself to him as the world outside this room disintegrates. There’s nothing left but us — this twisted, beautiful chaos, this aching tenderness that cuts deeper than anything I’ve ever known.

“I don’t want to breathe if it’s not with you,” he says, voice hoarse and unsteady. “I need you. I own you.”

And when I fall apart —shattered and consumed, I do it in his arms. In his mouth. In his breath. In the furious, terrifying grace of being completely his.

He follows with a groan that sounds like surrender and salvation all at once.

We lie there, tangled in the aftermath. Skin against skin. Heart against heart.

He kisses my temple, his breath still ragged.“I want you more than anything, Bianca Borrelli.” His voice is no more than a whisper.

I don’t get a chance to respond. I’m lying in my arms and hear the phone’s shrill tone, interrupting our blissful state. It’s sharp, jarring. Once. Then again. We both freeze. It rings again. Insistent. I stiffen against him.

He looks at the phone, with half dread and half rage, and I know something’s wrong.

Everything inside me coils tight, our perfect, fragile moment shattering like glass.

My body goes rigid.

He said a few harsh words in Serbian and then hung up. But his face is carved from stone, conveying his determination.

“Don’t,” I whisper, fingers tightening on his arm. “Not yet.”

The phone is an uninvited guest, and I resent it. But we both know he has to take it. We’re at war.

I don’t want him to leave. But he’s already moving, grabbing the phone from the nightstand. His phone rings, he scans the screen, and goes cold.

He answers with a clipped, “What?” Then his jaw clenches. “When?” Another beat. “We’re on our way.” He ends the call and meets my eyes.

I sit up, wrapping the sheet around my body, suddenly cold. “What is it?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer .

“Radovan,” he says, grimly grabbing his gun from the table. “He just made his next move.”

The war has escalated. And just like that, the warmth between us cools. Radovan has put a wedge between us.