The sounds started up again just after midnight.
First, a low voice from downstairs Damon. Then a woman's laugh, sharp and bright, slicing through the quiet.
I dragged the pillow over my head. The silk didn't help, not even a little.
My room was huge, all soft grays and pale creams. A designer's idea of comfort, but honestly, it felt like a fancy prison. The window looked out over perfectly trimmed gardens, now just shapes and shadows in the moonlight. The door didn't even have a lock.
Footsteps in the hallway bare feet, not heels, padding across the wood. Then a door creaked open, not Damon's bedroom. Somewhere else.
Isabella laughed again, closer this time. "You're terrible."
"You love it," Damon said, voice low and private.
My stomach twisted. I got up, the floor cold under my feet. I went to the door and pressed my ear to the wood.
Now I could hear everything. They were right across the hall, in the sitting room.
"On the couch," Damon said. Not a suggestion. A command.
"So commanding," Isabella purred.
Then he grabbed her, one hand on her throat and the other under her thigh, he lifted her like she weighed nothing and slammed her on the couch.
A soft thump. Her sharp inhale. Then the slow, steady creak of the couch springs.
My face burned, but I couldn't move. Shame pinned me in place.
He groaned low, rough, possessive. "Quiet."
"Make me," she shot back, her voice all breath and teasing and without wasting time, he spread her legs, fuck!! You are already wet, he said in a low voice.
I watched him pull out his penis and it was huge. He placed it into her vagina, I couldn't bring myself to watch it again, but all I could hear was the rhythm changing. The couch creaked faster, louder. Her breaths turned into high, pleading gasps. "Damon... please..."
"Please what?" His voice was dark, almost gentle. He'd only ever shown me ice.
"Don't stop."
He laughed, low. The sounds sped up frantic, desperate. Her cries broke, sharp and helpless, then tumbled into a long, shuddering moan.
Then nothing. Just their breathing, ragged, filling the hall.
I couldn't breathe. My hands shook.
After a while, I heard him again, his voice flat, almost bored. "Get dressed. Marco will drive you home."
"So soon?" Isabella, still breathless.
"I said now."
Footsteps. A door closed. Silence.
I stumbled back to bed, my heart banging in my chest. I felt sick. Humiliated. And God help me curious. Hot, ugly curiosity curling in my stomach.
Sleep wasn't happening. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting minutes until dawn.
At seven, a soft knock. Alessandra came in with breakfast. She wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Mr. Rossi wants you in the study at nine," she said, gentle as ever.
"Want?" My voice cracked.
She just gave me a sad little smile and left.
I showered and put on one of the plain dresses someone had left in the closet my size, bought for me, like everything else here. Ownership, right down to the hem. At nine, I went downstairs.
The study door was wide open. Damon sat behind his massive desk, typing. White shirt, sleeves rolled up. He looked relaxed. Rested. In control.
Not like me.
"Close the door," he said, eyes still on his laptop.
I did, but I stayed near it.
He finally looked up, scanning my face, then my hands were still shaking. "Sleep well?"
It landed like a slap.
"Why did you bring her here?" The words just spilled out.
He leaned back, calm as ever. "Because I wanted to."
"To hurt me."
He shrugged. "To remind you. This isn't a marriage. It's an arrangement. You'll see things. Hear things. You'll learn to keep your mouth shut."
Tears stung, but I blinked them away. "What do you want from me?"
"Obedience." He got up, circled the desk, and stood too close. I could smell his soap, his skin. "Nothing else. You're a decoration. A debt paid off. Don't expect my attention. Don't expect my touch."
"You think I want your touch?" I snapped, anger finally breaking through.
Something flickered in his eyes, maybe amusement. "Good. We understand each other."
He reached past me, his arm brushing my shoulder, and opened the door. That was it. Dismissed.
"Lucas Thorne called for you this morning," he said, just as I stepped out. I froze. "Your old college friend. He's here in town."
My heart jumped stupid hope. Lucas. Kind, gentle Lucas.
"I told him you weren't available," Damon added, his voice dropping into a warning. "Not ever. Don't contact him. If you do..." He let the threat hang.
He shut the door in my face.
I stood there, shaking. The sounds from last night wouldn't leave me, tangled up with the cold edge in his voice.
Then I heard his phone ringing inside. He answered, voice warm all of a sudden. "Vincenzo. What's wrong?"
Silence. Then his voice turned to ice.
"The warehouse on the docks. When?... How many men?"
Another pause.
"Tell Marco and Antonio. We are going tonight."
The call ended. I heard his fist hit the desk, hard.
I hurried away, mind racing. Warehouse. Men. Tonight.
Something was happening. Something dangerous.
And the man who owned me was walking right into it.
