Page 19 of Until You Break

His fingers slid from my wrist to the edge of my palm, a careless possession. He guided it higher, slow, until my knuckles grazed the line of his belt. The light summer fabric rasped my skin, warmth throbbed under my palm, my pulse stuttering wild.

“Feel what you do to rooms?” His eyes locked on mine, wicked. “They watch you. So do I.”

“I’m not a room.” My voice shook.

“You are. With all the windows open.”

My mouth dried. “Let go.”

“Say you don’t like it, and I will.”

“That trick again.”

“Honesty again.” His thumb swept once over the inside of my wrist, steady, possessive. “You get so sincere for me.”

I yanked back. He didn’t fight, just existed, immovable. My skin burned anyway.

“Stop cataloguing me.”

“I catalog everything I keep.”

“I’m not yours.”

He leaned in, not touching what mattered and still touching everything. “You keep saying that like it’s a spell. Has it worked yet?”

Salt climbed my tongue. The garden air spilled across my neck but it was still too hot. My face flushed, eyes wide, breath short enough to betray me.

The record hissed like a secret we hadn’t earned yet.

Two short taps on the door made me nearly jump.

“Avanti.” Damiano’s order curled in Italian smoke. He didn’t release my wrist. He walked me toward the door by that light hold, a leash only we could see, and opened it with his free hand.

Ice chimed in a glass like he’d brought weather with him.

Luca lounged in the doorway with a whiskey and a grin he wore like a shirt.

He smelled of peat and orange oil, his shirt soft with yesterday’s smoke.

Damiano’s grip on me didn’t loosen. Not even for his brother. Especially not for his brother.

Luca’s eyes flicked once, catching too much and pretending blindness. “Am I early for the newlyweds’ debrief?” His grin curled wicked.

“You’re on time.” Damiano’s grip tightened like punctuation. “What’s the damage?”

“Mostly reputations.” Luca lifted his glass, mock solemn.

“Two uncles swore celibacy for twelve hours. A few guests still owe from last night, debts to pay, honor to win back. They’ll settle it soon enough.

” He tipped the glass toward me, friendly as a knife.

“Some behaved like animals, wasted, hands where they didn’t belong.

They had to be thrown out before dawn.” His gaze hooked mine, grin sharp.

He let it linger, deliberate, until the silence stung.

“Not your family, kitten. They were long gone by then.”

The floor under me tilted. Heat climbed my face, wide eyes betraying me.

Gentler, he asked, “You alive, Valenti?”

“Apparently.” The word cut sharp, sharper than I meant.

“Good. You’ll need it.” He drank deep, eyes amused, then looked back at his brother with lazy challenge.

“Get out of my doorway.” Damiano’s words were pleasant, his grip not.

Damiano’s hand lingered a second too long on my wrist, thumb brushing the inside like a secret. He didn’t care that his brother saw. The claim was deliberate, humiliating, and my skin burned hotter for it.

“Happy home.” Luca tapped two fingers off his temple before disappearing down the hall.

A faint draft cooled the room and then died. Silence pressed against my ribs.

“You—” I jerked my wrist. He let go then, sudden, so I stumbled.

“Me.” His shameless grin stayed.

“You’re impossible.” My pulse hammered.

“That’s why I win.”

“You humiliated me. On purpose.”

His grin was merciless. “He saw. He didn’t blink. He knows how you stand next to me. Perfect.”

The word lodged like a collar I couldn’t shake off, not in front of Luca, not even alone.

“I’m not a—” I swallowed the word collar. “sign.”

“You’re a lesson.” His amusement was a blade. “And a luxury.”

I held up the sheet I’d rescued. “You can’t make everything yours by touching it.”

He took it easily, eyes tracing the shadow again. Graphite blurred under his thumb, his shadow or mine, a smudge that wouldn’t wash. “Watch me.”

“Give it back.”

“Please.” His tone was dry, uncompromising.

“Please.” The word tasted wrong in my mouth.

He leaned in, brushed a kiss against my mouth, playful, sharp, gone before I could resist. My lips burned like he’d left a mark anyway.

“Better.” He didn’t hand it over. He walked to the desk, placed the paper carefully, then leaned on the edge like a man considering furniture he’d already ordered.

“You’ll pass the day sketching.” His tone was firm, but there was a rough kindness threaded through it.

“Cupboard’s stacked with sketchbooks, pencils, paints.

Use them. Spend the day here, with music, with work.

If you need anything, call personnel. They’ll bring it. You’re not locked in. You’re occupied.”

The words landed like orders, not generosity, and yet he’d given me something I missed.

A gift disguised as command, disguised as control.

Even my freedom was curated. Even my art, a leash.

The paper smelled new, official, like every page had already been cleared by the house before it reached my hands.

Somewhere above, a faint hum betrayed the cameras, always listening.

My chest tightened. “Sketchbooks. You’re giving me sketchbooks.” Disbelief tangled with something warmer. Resentment licked too, ugly and hot, because I wanted them.

“Si.” His head tilted, eyes glinting, voice stern even in concession. “I need you occupied. You’re my husband. So I brought you a wedding gift. I’ll keep you satisfied, on paper, in music, and everywhere else.”

“I don’t—” My protest stuck in my throat.

He stepped in, stealing space. He didn’t kiss me, just hovered in the idea of it, close enough for my skin to flush hot. Blood surged lower, traitor heat stiffening me. His gaze dipped once, caught it, and lingered with approval.

“Good,” he murmured, satisfaction cutting through me like a blade. “I like when you wear it on your skin.”

“You ruin everything you touch.” My voice trembled.

A private, terrible smile. “Only the things that are worthy of total ruin.”

I wanted to throw the record player, the desk, him.

The urge burned hotter because his words had twisted in me, making me feel worthy when I hated wanting it, making me love the weight of being seen.

Heat pulsed low, shame curling with arousal.

Instead I found the needle again. The music hissed and caught, the trumpet got its breath back.

My hands shook, obvious, betraying. He watched, eyes glinting with hunger.

The record spun, rasping secrets we hadn’t earned.

The air smelled of clove and lemon. My pulse pounded, furious at me for chasing it anyway.

And beneath the fury was something worse, the suspicion that part of me already wanted to be caught.

Want burned under my skin, heat I couldn’t shake, shame twisting with desire until it felt the same.

He straightened, still smiling, but didn’t leave at once.

He leaned in, close enough that clove and steel brushed the back of my throat, his mouth near my ear.

“Don’t disappoint me, piccolino. I want to hear the music when I come back.

” His gaze dragged down me, slow and claiming, before he finally turned away.

“I have work to do. Records are in the drawer by the desk.”

And then he left me with the music and the sunlight, the scent of him still thick in the air.

From the hall I caught Luca’s voice again, low and amused, asking if Damiano was coming.

A door shut after, the sound of them walking away together, business resuming while I was left here to fill silence with graphite and shame.

I sat at the desk, hand hovering over the page. Empty. Waiting. I pressed the pencil down, but all I could see was his shadow, already smudging the lines before I’d begun.