Page 36 of Until You Break
EMILIO
We woke late, light stretching across the room like it meant to keep us there.
The house hummed faintly beyond the walls, muffled guard voices, the smell of coffee drifting up the stairwell, reminders that the world was already moving even if we weren’t.
Palermo glittered under a clear sky, the streets bright and dry, the sea-salt air sharp in the open windows.
Damiano brushed his mouth against my hair, voice low but certain. “Come on. It’s a beautiful day.”
When we came downstairs the guards moved quiet through the hall.
One asked if Damiano needed anything. He waved them off, snatched the SUV keys from the hook, and Adrian fell into step behind us anyway.
Damiano shot me a half-smile as he opened the door.
“He’s always there. Bodyguard or not, he acts like my shadow.
At this point, I should start charging him rent for it. ”
We drove into the city, his hand steady on the wheel, the other warm and heavy on my thigh.
The sea flashed between buildings, waves restless under the morning sun.
At the corner, gelateria Romana's shutters rolled up, the green awning snapping in the breeze, the bell chiming like it had been waiting.
We took our order to a terrace table in the sun. A couple at the next table whispered and looked away too fast, and I felt the weight of stares trailing us even here. Damiano’s hand stayed heavy on my thigh under the table, possessive, making sure no one mistook where I belonged.
The barista’s hands shook when she served us, but in the open air it was only the clink of cups and the hum of traffic.
Damiano tasted his coffee and let out a pleased sigh. “Perfect,” he said, settling back.
I pulled my phone out, turning it over in my hand like it was some strange relic. “Feels weird to hold one again,” I muttered. “Like it doesn’t belong to me.”
Damiano smirked. “You’ll get used to it. Just don’t text anyone prettier than me.”
I snorted, thumb hovering over the screen. “So we’re still set on tonight? My brothers, the roof terrace?”
“Of course.”
I typed the message to Enzo, the thread blinking at the top.
Emilio: Fratelli. We need to talk. Come tonight to the Bellandi residence. Ask for the roof terrace when you arrive. I’ll be waiting.
The reply came fast.
Enzo: We’ll be there
I stared at the screen a moment longer, warmth rising in my chest.
Damiano’s fingers tapped once against his cup, eyes distant, thoughtful. His voice came quiet, measured. “I’m curious what Salvatore will bring tonight. Whatever he’s holding back, I’ll have my men digging into it too. I don’t like mysteries sitting at my table.”
I nodded, setting my cup down. “I agree. No one threatens our life.”
His gaze cut back to mine, sharp softening into something deeper.
He lifted a ringed finger and threaded it through mine, holding me with that small, territorial touch.
“Our life,” he murmured, close enough that his words landed on my mouth.
He kissed me, thumb dragging slow across my knuckles.
When he pulled back he spoke into my lips, low and certain.
“You’re right, and anyone who tries to fuck with us will end up regretting it. ”
I rolled my eyes, but the smile that broke was real. We kissed again, unfazed by the heads that turned to stare. A murmur rippled through the terrace, a chair scraped too loud, but Damiano only deepened the kiss, smug at every look we drew.
I watched as he waved the nervous waiter over, paying with the kind of easy confidence that made people move without question.
Sunlight caught in his dark hair, his rings flashing as he lifted his hand, the line of his shoulders relaxed like the city bent for him.
His eyes flicked with delight, his smile lazy.
He was the most handsome man I'd ever laid eyes on.
And he was mine. The thought was overwhelming.
"What?" he asked when he caught me staring.
"Nothing." I flushed, feeling warm and ridiculous all at once.
I caught sight of the houses by the shore.
"Did you know Palermo has been invaded more times than almost any other city in Europe?
Arabs, Normans, Spaniards, all of them fought for this place, and somehow it always survived.
In 1072 the Normans marched right through these streets and claimed the city for themselves. "
"Are you interested in history now?" Damiano smirked. "My husband is so intelligent."
I rolled my eyes. "One fact doesn’t make me a professor."
"Mm, but it does make you charming," he shot back.
"Careful, or I’ll start quoting dates at you until you regret it."
"I’d survive it," he said dryly, pushing his chair back. Then he stood, slipped his arm around me, and pressed me close as we left. He winked at Adrian on the way to the car, like it was all a game only he understood.
By the time we returned home the afternoon was warm.
In the car his hand pressed firm on my thigh, inching higher until his fingers brushed the bulge straining against me.
He squeezed once, slow and deliberate, teasing me with his erection through the fabric, a filthy promise of what he’d do once we were alone.
He leaned closer, his breath warm at my ear.
“The second we’re alone, I’m going to taste you until there’s nothing left on your tongue but me,” he murmured, low and possessive.
“I’ll keep you moaning until you can’t think of anything else.
” I gasped at his words, my body trembling despite myself, heat and need tangled under my skin.
In the bedroom Damiano put on a record, the needle catching soft.
He pushed me back against the wall before we ever made it to the bed, his mouth hard on mine, hands tugging at clothes until buttons scattered across the floor.
We stripped rougher than we meant to, laughter breaking through the heat when a sleeve tore, when his rings scraped my skin.
His mouth trailed down my neck, biting harder, licking the sting until I shivered.
He spun me, pressed me to the mirror, made me watch as his hands slid lower, possessive and sure.
His mouth caught mine, kisses hard and hungry, stealing breath until I gasped. He pressed me to the bed, tugging clothes away in frantic pulls, teeth grazing my throat, tongue soothing the sting. Heat built fast, his weight pinning me, his lips swallowing every moan.
“Damiano,” I gasped, clawing at his shoulders.
He answered with his tongue, licking deep, nipping, sucking until I writhed. “More,” I begged, voice breaking. His fingers pushed inside, stretching me slow, twisting until I cried out. “Please.”
By the time he slid into me I was shaking, clinging to him, nails biting his skin. “Fuck—yes,” I moaned, and he kissed me through every thrust, groaning into my mouth.
“Harder,” I begged, voice breaking. “Don’t stop.”
“You feel that?” he growled, pace quickening.
“Yes…God, yes,” I gasped, arching up into him. “More.”
Our names broke free between gasps, a litany tangled with curses and pleas. The rhythm built, dark and relentless, sweat slicking our bodies as we moved rough against each other.
The mattress dipped as he tilted me up, his voice rough in my ear. “Take it. Take all of me.”
“Damiano,” I gasped again, trembling.
He shoved harder. “Say it. Say you’re mine.
” He drove into me inch by inch until my teeth ached with the sound of his name.
His rhythm built messy, brutal and needy, every gasp stolen.
One hand locked my hip, the other slid up, gliding slowly down from my throat to my stomach—dangerous and deliberate.
My cock throbbed, heat pooling low. Damiano chuckled, low and dark, drinking in my shiver like worship.
His hand slid lower, tracing the inside of my thigh until his thumb found the faded scars there.
Heat spiked through me, tangled with shame. My body betrayed me, arousal and fear flooding together, leaving me exposed. I twisted, half-wanting to hide, half-wanting him to press harder.
His grip pinned me. Rings pressed sharp into skin. “These scars,” he said, voice dark but reverent. “It hurts me to see them, to know you thought you were alone enough to bleed without me.”
Shame burned hotter, but before I could cover myself, he caught my wrist, dragged it away.
“No more hiding,” he said, rough and certain. “Not from me. If there are cuts in your skin, they’ll be ours. If there’s blood, it’ll be because I was here to claim it. Never again because you were left alone.”
He touched the scars again, slower, like sealing a vow. “From now on, every mark is ours. Every cut is to bind us. You and me, ruled by the same blade.”
Something cold flashed from the nightstand.
Light slid down the steel as he brought it close, deliberate, inevitable.
The flat of the blade lingered over my chest, gliding across my pecs, tracing down my stomach in a slow, sensual path.
His eyes drank me in as if every inch was his to worship.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, voice low. I flinched at the touch, heat spiking with fear and want both.
He paused, a cruel smile ghosting his mouth, letting the silence stretch before he spoke again.
“Oh, you're scared now? If I wanted cruelty,” he breathed at my ear, “I’d carve Property of D across your skin and laugh while you screamed.” His lips curved, sharp but amused. “And I am cruel. Just not with you, marito mio. But I need to be clear you’ll never be alone again.”
I huffed, breath shaking. “I don’t… I don’t know if I can do this.” The words slipped out fragile, half-ashamed, my eyes skittering away from his.
"Yes, you can." His laugh was low, dangerous, pleased. He flipped the blade and pressed the hilt into my palm. “Go on, piccolino. Mark me first. Put yourself in my skin. Show me you’ve got the courage.”
The weight of it trembled through me. I lifted the blade to his chest, just under the collarbone.
He didn’t flinch, didn’t breathe, only stared down like I was already holy.
Slowly, carefully, I carved the first line, the steel parting skin in a shallow arc.
Blood welled bright, following the trail as I drew the letter into him.
His breath left in a groan, head tipping back, chest rising into the blade like he wanted more.
I dragged the second line just as slow, the cut sharp and clean, blood running in thin rivulets down his ribs.
His hand stayed steady on my hip, grounding me as I finished the final stroke, the letter taking shape under my trembling hand.
The E bloomed red, carved into him, stark and raw.
He groaned again, voice rough. “Good. Yours.”
“I wanted this,” I whispered, the confession slipping out before I could stop it.
For a breath we just stared at each other chest to chest, the bad hovering between us like a promise. My heart thrashed so hard I thought it might split before the steel ever did.
His grin was sharp, blood at the edge of it. “Now mine. And I’ll mark you where no one else will ever dare look. My initial over your scars, so every time you see them, you’ll remember they belong to us, not to your pain.”
The knife left my hand before I could stop it. The sound of steel kissing skin rang sharp in my ears, a slice that sang of pain and permanence. The scent of iron rose hot between us, metallic and heavy, mixing with sweat.
It coated my tongue when I licked my lips, sharp and copper-bitter, the taste of us burned into my mouth.
The sting spread outward in waves, fire clawing through my thigh, twisting into something that made me shiver with both terror and need.
My breath hitched, half-choked by fear, half-broken by arousal, as if my body couldn’t decide whether to recoil or beg for more.
Cold kissed the inside of my thigh, over old scars, before heat split through me.
The blade bit shallow, but enough to send fire through my nerves. Hot blood welled fast, slicking down my skin, and the pain made me gasp, raw, sharp, undeniable. My thighs trembled, torn between flinching and pressing closer.
His mouth followed at once, tongue dragging slow over the fresh line, licking blood like sugar, drinking every drop as though it were proof of what he owned.
A crude, raw D burned into me. His mark.
“Mine,” he whispered against it, voice torn between hunger and vow. “Forever. Every cut from now on is a crown. You’ll never bleed alone again. You’ll bleed as mine.”
I swallowed, still shaking. “Then we match.”
His eyes cut up to mine, fever-bright. “Yes. We match. King and consort. No more loneliness. No more hiding. You bleed with me now, and the world will learn what that means.”
The knife clattered to the floor. His hand stayed heavy on my thigh, his mouth softening over the wound until pain and promise blurred together.
Blood streaked our skin, smeared between our stomachs, slick enough that he dragged his hand down and used it to stroke us harder, the mess becoming our seal.
He pressed his mouth to my ear, whispering of families, of territories, of how we would rule this city together in blood and pleasure as he pushed me back onto the bed.
Our cocks rubbed slick against each other, desperate and raw, the heat of it unbearable.
He gripped my jaw, forced my eyes to his, and growled, “Come with me. Bleed and come as mine.”
The pain sharpened the pleasure, every thrust of our hips dragging us closer until release tore through me, wet and violent.
His growl filled my mouth as I came, my body breaking against his chest. He followed a heartbeat later, groaning my name, spilling across my chest, across the mark he had made, grinding against me until we were both ruined in sweat and blood.
We collapsed in the mess of it, mouths still seeking, kissing through the wreckage as if we couldn’t stop.
Blood and come bound us tighter than any vow, iron heat mixing with salt and skin.
Damiano’s mouth dipped lower, kissing the wound as if sealing it with his lips.
A drop of blood slid off my thigh and hit the sheets with a soft patter, stark in the quiet.
He reached up after, thumb brushing the sweat from my temple, covering me with his body as if shielding me from everything outside this room.
I shuddered, whispering back into his hair, “Always.”
And for the first time, the cut didn’t feel like loss. It felt eternal, a vow carved in blood that bound us to reign together. It felt like a future. It felt like reign.
It felt like us.