9: The Enemy’s Offer

9: The Enemy’s Offer

 Isabella’s POV

I was going to kill him.

I swore it as Luca hauled me over his shoulder like I was nothing more than a misbehaving pet, carrying me effortlessly through the dimly lit penthouse. His grip was firm, unyielding, as if he wasn’t even exerting effort, as if I weighed nothing at all.

He hadn’t said a word since catching me.

Not when I thrashed, kicked, or threw every ounce of strength into trying to break free. Not when I screamed curses into his back, my voice raw with rage. Not even when I dug my nails into his shoulder, hard enough to break the skin and draw hot, wet blood.

Nothing.

And that scared me more than anything.

Luca was silent when he was angry.

When he spoke, when he teased, when he smirked—that was when he was in control. That was when he was toying with me, drawing out the game, enjoying the chase.

But when he said nothing at all?

That meant I was about to suffer.

The dim golden glow of the penthouse lights blurred as he moved, my vision shifting with each smooth step he took. I gritted my teeth, trying to calm the erratic pounding of my heart, but it was no use.

My body was still trembling, still burning from the adrenaline of my failed escape.

Then, without warning, he entered his bedroom and threw me onto the bed.

I barely had time to brace myself before I hit the mattress with enough force to make me bounce. My breath punched from my lungs as I scrambled upright, my chest rising and falling, my pulse so loud it roared in my ears.

"You—"

I didn’t get to finish.

Luca’s hand shot out, wrapping around my throat.

Not squeezing.

Not hurting.

Just holding.

Controlling.

My breath hitched, but not from fear.

His silver eyes burned into mine, a storm of fury and something far darker swirling behind them.

A warning.

A promise.

"You disobeyed me," he murmured, his voice impossibly calm.

Too calm.

I swallowed hard, but refused to look away.

"You ran," he continued, his fingers trailing down my throat, slow and deliberate, like he was committing the feel of my pulse to memory.

Then his eyes darkened further.

"You let another man touch you."

Dante.

My stomach twisted at the name, and I hated that Luca could see it all over my face.

His smirk was pure sin.

"You think you deserve mercy, dolcezza?"

I clenched my jaw, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I don’t need your mercy."

Something flashed in his gaze—approval, amusement, maybe even something closer to a challenge.

"Good," he murmured. "Because you won’t get any."

Before I could react, Luca moved with the kind of effortless strength that always made me feel small beneath him. In one swift motion, he flipped me onto my stomach, pinning me beneath his weight.

A startled gasp tore from my lips as I struggled, twisting, kicking, but it was useless.

His body pressed against mine, solid, inescapable.

"You belong to me, Isabella."

His voice was steady, low, and edged with something dangerous. Something possessive.

Then came the first sharp slap.

I jerked, a strangled sound escaping my lips before I could stop it. My body arched, my skin burning where his palm had struck.

Another slap, harder this time.

"That was for running."

The next landed without pause.

"For making me chase you."

And another, slower, more deliberate.

"For making me think, even for a second," his voice dipped lower, his fingers brushing over the heat he had left behind, "that you were ready to leave me."

I bit my lip, swallowing down the sound that threatened to escape. I hated this. Hated the way my body responded even when my mind screamed to resist.

Luca chuckled, the sound dark and knowing.

"Look at you," he murmured, his fingers teasing down the curve of my thigh. "Dripping for me."

I clenched my fists against the sheets, my face burning.

"Fck you," I gritted out.

His grip tightened instantly, his hand fisting in my hair and yanking my head back just enough to make me meet his gaze. The smirk playing at the corner of his mouth sent a fresh wave of frustration through me.

"You want more, dolcezza?" His voice was a slow, sinful purr, laced with amusement. "Beg."

I would rather die.

Luca let out a soft hum, like he had expected my stubbornness. His fingers ghosted lower, teasing the edge of my lace panties, slipping just barely beneath the fabric.

"You wanted to run?" he murmured. "Then let me show you what it means to be caught."

His hand slid lower, slow, deliberate.

I sucked in a breath, my entire body going taut, every nerve ending screaming.

And then—

He pulled away.

A sharp, frustrated sound escaped me before I could stop it.

Luca laughed, low and cruel.

"Not yet," he murmured against my ear.

I clenched my jaw, my pride warring with the desperate heat simmering beneath my skin. I would not beg. I wouldn’t break.

But he could feel my hesitation.

His fingers brushed against me—just barely, just enough to make me arch into him.

Then—gone.

Again.

I let out a small, choked sound, frustration curling tight in my stomach.

"So close to breaking, dolcezza," he mused. "But not yet."

His lips ghosted over my jaw, teasing, taunting, making a slow path toward my ear.

"You’ll beg for it soon enough."

And then—he was gone.

The warmth of his body, the weight of him holding me down, the slow torture he had inflicted—it all disappeared in an instant, leaving me panting, trembling, and furious.

I lay there for a long moment, my breath unsteady, my skin flushed, my body aching in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge.

Then—

A cold breeze.

My stomach twisted.

Luca’s penthouse was sealed like a fortress.

There were no open windows. No unlocked doors.

And yet…

The air had shifted.

Like something—or someone—was here.

My heart pounded, my pulse still racing from Luca, but now for an entirely different reason.

I pushed myself upright, my limbs still weak, my legs unsteady as I forced myself to stand.

Then—movement.

A shadow in the corner.

A figure. A man.

Sitting in Luca’s leather chair, legs crossed, arms draped over the armrests, his posture easy, relaxed.

Like he belonged there.

Like he had been waiting for me.

A slow, wicked smirk curled at his lips.

"Did you enjoy that, Isabella?"

My blood turned to ice.

I staggered back, my breath catching in my throat.

No doors had opened.

No footsteps had sounded.

Dante was just there.

Impossible.

But then again, nothing about him had ever been human.

His gaze swept over me, slow and lazy, filled with amusement.

"Luca plays so rough," he mused, tilting his head as if studying me.

"You should let me show you what real pleasure feels like."