Chapter 27 The Claiming

Chapter 27 The Claiming

Marcella's POV

The drive back to the estate passed in a blur.

I sat in the passenger seat, still wearing Lorenzo's jacket over my ruined clothes, staring at my hands. I'd scrubbed them raw in the vineyard bathroom, but I could still see the blood. Still feel the way the knife had slid into flesh.

I'd killed a man.

The thought kept circling in my head, looking for a place to land. But it wouldn't settle. It just kept spinning, making me dizzy.

Lorenzo's hand covered mine on my thigh. Warm. Solid. Real.

"Stop," he said quietly.

"Stop what?"

"Replaying it. I can see it on your face."

"I can't help it."

"Yes, you can." His fingers laced through mine. "You did what you had to do. What anyone would do to protect someone they...." He stopped himself. "To survive."

I looked at him. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the road. But his hand held mine like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.

"You were going to say something else," I said.

"Was I?"

"Lorenzo"

"We're almost home." He pulled his hand away to shift gears. "When we get there, you're going to shower. Eat. Rest. And then we're going to plan our next move."

"Morocco."

"Yes."

"When?"

"Soon. But first, I need to find out how Giovanni knew we were coming." His voice went hard. "Someone told him. Someone close enough to know our movements."

The thought made my stomach turn. "You think there's another mole?"

"I know there is. And I'm going to find them."

\---

The estate felt different when we arrived. Darker somehow. More dangerous.

Or maybe that was just me. Maybe I was the one who'd changed.

Rosa met us at the door, her ancient eyes taking in my bloody clothes and hollow expression.

"Your orders have been prepared," she said quietly to Lorenzo.

"Good. Make sure no one disturbs us tonight."

"Of course."

Lorenzo's hand settled on my lower back, guiding me toward the stairs. I went without protest, too tired to fight.

In his room our room now, I realized he led me straight to the bathroom.

"Shower," he ordered. "I'll bring you food."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're eating anyway."

He left before I could argue.

I stood under the scalding water until my skin was red and my fingers pruned. Scrubbed every inch of myself, trying to wash away the violence. The blood. The memory of the man's eyes going empty.

When I finally stepped out, there was a soft silk robe hanging on the door. Lorenzo's. It smelled like him, smoke, leather, and safety.

I put it on and walked back into the bedroom.

Lorenzo was sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his clothes from the vineyard. There was a tray of food on the nightstand: soup, bread, and fruit.

"Eat," he said, nodding toward it.

I sat beside him and picked up the soup. It tasted like nothing, but I forced it down. He watched me the entire time, his dark eyes tracking every movement.

"I should feel worse," I said quietly. "Shouldn't I? I killed someone, and all I feel is... empty."

"You're in shock. The guilt will come later. Or it won't." He reached out and tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear. "Some people aren't built to carry that weight. They do what needs doing and move forward."

"Is that what you do?"

"Yes."

"Does it get easier?"

His hand cupped my cheek. "No. But you learn to live with it. To make peace with the parts of yourself that can do violence."

I leaned into his touch, closing my eyes. "I don't know who I am anymore."

"You're a survivor. A fighter. Mine."

The last word made my eyes open.

He was watching me with that intensity that made my stomach flip. That dark hunger I'd been seeing more and more.

"Lorenzo...."

"Finish eating."

I did, mechanically putting food in my mouth until the bowl was empty. Then I set it aside and looked at him.

"Now what?"

"Now you tell me the truth."

"About what?"

"About what you were feeling in that vineyard room. When you tried to seduce me."

Heat flooded my face. "I was in shock. You said so yourself."

"That's not all you were feeling." He shifted closer, his thigh pressing against mine. "You wanted me. Not to escape. Not to forget. You just wanted me."

"That's not"

"Don't lie to me, Marcella." His hand slid into my hair, gripping gently. "Not after everything we've been through. Not after you killed for me."

"I killed to save you. That's different."

"Is it?" His thumb brushed my lower lip. "Tell me you don't want me right now. Say it, and I'll leave you alone."

I opened my mouth to say the words. To lie and push him away and protect what was left of my walls.

But I couldn't.

Because he was right. I did want him. Had wanted him for weeks now. Maybe since the wedding, when he'd whispered in my ear that he'd enjoy watching the hatred in my eyes turn to something else.

It had turned. God help me, it had turned.

"I can't," I whispered.

"Can't what?"

"Can't say I don't want you. Because I do."

His eyes went molten. "Say it again."

"I want you."

"How much?"

My breathing quickened. "What?"

"How much do you want me, Marcella? Enough to beg for it? Enough to forget every reason you thought you should hate me?"

"Yes."

I was still wrapped in his silk robe, skin flushed from the shower, hair dripping down my back. Lorenzo hadn’t taken his eyes off me once since we’d crossed the threshold. He stood a few feet away, shirt already gone, belt hanging open, the hard cut of his abs and the dark ink crawling over his chest and arms lit by the low amber lamps. He looked like sin made flesh, and the hunger in his gaze made my knees weak.

“Take the robe off,” he said, voice low and lethal. “Slowly.”

My fingers trembled as I pulled the knot loose. The silk sighed over my shoulders and pooled at my feet. Cool air kissed my naked skin; his stare burned hotter.

He didn’t move yet. He just looked, possessive and deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch he now owned.

“Bed. On your back. Legs open.”

I obeyed, heart hammering so hard I could feel it between my thighs. The sheets were cool against my spine. I let my knees fall apart, exposing myself completely. The vulnerability made me dizzy.

Lorenzo stepped forward, shedding the rest of his clothes as he came. His cock was already heavy, thick, curving up against his stomach, a bead of moisture at the tip. I couldn’t look away.

He knelt between my thighs, hands sliding up the insides of my legs, thumbs pressing hard enough to leave faint marks. When he reached the top, he spread me wider, inspecting me like he had every right.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough. “Soaked for me already. You killed a man today, and still all you can think about is how empty you feel without me inside you.”

A broken sound left my throat. Shame and want twisted together.

“Say it.”

“I need you,” I whispered.

“Not good enough.” His thumb dragged slowly up my slit, barely grazing my clit, making me jerk. “Tell me what a filthy fucking thing you are, Marcella. Tell me you murdered for me and now you want to be fucked like you deserve.”

The words scraped out of me, raw and desperate. “I killed for you. And I’m wet because of it. Because I’m yours. Please, Lorenzo.”

He rewarded me by pushing two fingers deep inside without warning. I cried out, back bowing off the bed.

“That’s it,” he growled, curling them, stroking that spot that made my vision blur. “Scream for me. Let the whole fucking house hear who you belong to.”

His mouth descended, hot and wicked. His tongue lashed my clit while his fingers pumped hard and fast. I clawed at the sheets, at his hair, hips bucking shamelessly against his face. He pinned my thighs open with bruising strength, forcing me to take every ruthless flick and suck until I was sobbing, begging, right on the edge.

He pulled away just before I came.

“No.” The denial tore out of me.

He rose over me, eyes black with lust and something darker. “You come when I say. Not before.”

He gripped my throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb resting over my pulse. The weight of his hand there, the reminder of how easily he could end me and how willingly I’d let him, sent a fresh rush of slick heat between my legs.

“Tell me again,” he said against my lips. “Who owns this body?”

“You do.”

“Say my name when you say it.”

“Lorenzo owns me.”

He rewarded me with a slow, approving smile that made my stomach flip. Then he dragged the head of his cock through my folds, coating himself, teasing my entrance until I was writhing.

“Beg.”

“Please, Lorenzo. Fuck me. I need it. Need you to ruin me.”

He slammed inside in one brutal thrust.

The stretch burned, exquisite and overwhelming. He was huge, splitting me open, bottoming out so deep I felt him in my spine. My nails raked down his back hard enough to draw blood.

He didn’t give me time to adjust. He pulled back and drove in again, harder, setting a punishing rhythm that had the headboard slamming against the wall. Every thrust forced a broken cry from my throat.

“Take it,” he snarled, hand tightening on my throat just enough to make my head swim. “Every inch. You were made for this, for me to fuck you raw whenever I want.”

I couldn’t speak, could only moan and claw at him as he pounded into me, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room. His other hand found my clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles.

“Come,” he commanded. “Come all over the cock that owns you.”

The orgasm hit like a blade, sharp, blinding, violent. I screamed his name, body seizing, inner walls clamping down on him so hard he cursed viciously.

He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, dragging it out until I was shaking, oversensitive, tears streaming down my temples.

“Again,” he demanded.

“I can’t.”

“You can and you will.”

He flipped me onto my stomach without pulling out, yanking my hips up. One hand fisted in my wet hair, arching my back; the other came down hard on my ass, once, twice, the sting blooming into fire that arrowed straight to my clit.

Then he was inside me again, deeper from this angle, brutal and relentless. His balls slapped against my swollen clit with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice ragged now. “Ass red from my hand, pussy dripping down your thighs. You love this. Love being fucked like a whore by the man you tried to kill.”

“Yes. God, yes.”

He reached beneath me, pinching my clit hard. The second orgasm detonated even stronger than the first. I buried my face in the pillow and screamed until my voice cracked, body convulsing around him.

Lorenzo’s rhythm faltered. His grip turned brutal, hair, hips, throat, and he drove in one last time, so deep it hurt in the best way. He came with a guttural growl, pulsing hot inside me, marking me in the most primitive way possible.

For a long moment we stayed locked together, trembling, sweat-slick, breathing like we’d run for our lives.

He pulled out slowly and flipped me back over, eyes searching my face. His thumb brushed the tears from my cheek with surprising tenderness.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Every bruise, every scream, every drop of come inside you. Mine.”

I could barely speak, throat raw. “Yours,” I managed.

He gathered me against his chest, arms like steel bands, lips pressed to my temple.

“I love you,” he said against my skin, fierce and reverent all at once. “Even when you hate me, even when you’re covered in someone else’s blood, especially then. I love you.”

The words broke something open inside me. I clung to him, shaking. “I love you too. God help me, I do.”

He pulled the sheet over us, holding me so tightly it should have hurt, but it only felt like safety.

Outside, the estate was silent.

Inside, I was finally, completely claimed.