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“Assuming she survives,” I add, my voice betraying none of the fire that burns within. Milo’s hand freezes mid-air, the bloody cloth clutched tight, as he stares at me.
“You’re going to marry her?” Disbelief paints his face.
I lean back in the leather chair, its leather creaking under my weight. “Yes,” I say, measuring the impact of my words on him. “Do you have a problem with that?” The challenge is hanging between us, and I’m giving him a chance to say no, but only one chance.
His mouth opens then closes, a battle of words he’s not sure whether he wants to wage. The air is thick with tension, a palpable force that seems to press on us from all sides.
“No, of course not. I am not your brother, Leone.” His voice is strained, the usual steadiness replaced by an undercurrent of disbelief. “I… just—you haven’t been with a woman in years. It’s just a bit of a shock.”
I let out a harsh breath, my gaze never leaving Fallon’s pale face. “I need an heir, and I haven’t got time to try to woo some woman who’ll potentially betray me. At least with her, I know she won’t betray me while I hold her father’s and Emma’s life in my hands,” I state flatly.
“And you’re too scared to have her because you fear her dying on you.” I lean forward, locking eyes with him. “She’ll be safe with my name, and you can still keep her. But I need an heir and a wife first.” My voice is sharp, cutting with an air of finality to any objection he might have.
Milo holds my stare, his sharp brown eyes reflecting a storm of emotions. He swallows hard, and for a moment, we both understand the gravity of my chosen path. Yet something shifts within him, acceptance or resignation—I can’t tell.
“Leone…” His voice trails off, but the unspoken words hang between us like smoke. “What if she says no?”
I fix my gaze on him. “She won’t have a choice. She owes me millions,” I state, leaving no room for argument. The power I wield comes at a price, and Fallon’s debt has just bought her a new life—one she never asked for.
The doctor approaches us, his face weary, no doubt fearing for his life if she died. He peels off his gloves with a snap that echoes like a gunshot in the quiet room. “She’ll be fine,” he announces, and something akin to relief—but darker, more possessive—stirs within me. “I’m heading home, I need to sleep, but the tracker is in her neck,” he says, and I nod, dismissing him, turning my attention back to Fallon.
Despite the blood staining her body and the pallor of her complexion – her once vibrant blonde hair now matted with dried blood –she is still stunning. She has high cheekbones and a sharp jawline, giving her a strong and confident appearance. Her pouty lips, now split and cracked, are slightly parted, and her full breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath.
Even knocking on death’s door, she still radiates a haunting beauty, making me wonder how I never noticed her before. Appearance wise, I can see Milo’s fascination with her, she is gorgeous, but not like the other women we are used to. Fallon almost seems more innocent, delicate in some way; I can’t quite put my finger on why I feel that way.
Well, until she opens her mouth, showing her quick tongue, and utter defiance. Most women would quiver at the mere thought of talking back to me. Fallon has no issues letting me know the hatred she has for me. Perhaps that is why I find her appealing, men of stature shake in their boots facing me. It’s refreshing being around someone not afraid to speak their mind. Fallon does not fear me as she should, not yet anyway.
Or it could be knowing my father will hate her. She is a no one, no ties to our world, not Italian, no stature, she has nothing of use to him, he believes marriages are about alliances, culture and god are what Italians usually care about when pairing in marriages, marrying Fallon will infuriate him, one because she does not come from a good family, two she isn’t Italian.
“Get her cleaned up as best you can,” I instruct Milo as Doctor Stevens gives him a nod and exits. I rise from my chair, my thoughts already shifting to other urgent matters, leaving Milo to watch over her.
Milo is more than just additional protection; he’s indispensable. My father will despise her, and I cannot entrust her care to just anyone—not after everything that happened with Lydia. Milo, however, I trust implicitly. He’s not just a loyal friend; he’s family, a brother in all but blood. And it’s this trust that makes him the only choice.
The truth is, I’m used to taking what I want, bending the world to my will. Sharing her doesn’t sit well with me. It grates against every possessive instinct I have. Yet, if keeping her safe and close means sharing her with Milo, then I’ll swallow that bitter pill.
Milo, unknowingly, will also act as a buffer. His gentle handling might coax from her a willingness, or at least a resignation, to her role that I would never be able to achieve alone. He’ll be the softer touch, the one to help her adjust to the grim reality of her situation. It’s a role I can’t fulfill, nor do I wish to. My methods are harsher, molded by necessity and the stark realities of our world, not the comforts of delusion. Forcing him to simply watch, detached as I use the woman he loves, would be a cruelty too far—even for me. It’s an arrangement of convenience; by sharing her, I ensure her safety and his involvement without the messy entanglements of betrayal.
THIRTEEN
FALLON
My eyelids flutter open, rebelling against the harsh light that assaults my senses. I blink against the heaviness in my head, the world coming into focus with cruel clarity. The ache that permeates every inch of my flesh is a reminder of the ordeal I’d endured, the bruises painting a mosaic of pain on my skin. My breaths are shallow gasps, each one laced with the sharp twinge of battered ribs protesting my movement and the aching of my shoulder that worsens with each breath. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this sore in my life.
Groaning, I try to lift my hand to my temple, which throbs in sync with a pounding headache. But for some reason, I find my movement abruptly halted. Panic surges as I realize I’m chained to the bed, one wrist locked tightly in a handcuff. My breath quickens, fear clawing at my chest as the claustrophobic feeling accelerates, reminding me of walls closing in. I frantically tug at the restraint, which does nothing but cause the chain to rattle uselessly. It’s futile. The handcuffs are securely fastened, leaving me trapped and vulnerable.
For a moment, the old terror threatens to overwhelm me—the stifling, crushing fear of confinement. But I force myself to breathe, to focus on the differences, not the similarities. It’s just a handcuff, not a small, dark room. There’s light here; this isn’t the same. I can live with being handcuffed; it’s the dark that truly terrifies me. This mental mantra helps against the rising panic, anchoring me back to a bearable reality.
“Wha—?” The word is barely a whisper, my throat raw and parched. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog that seems to cling to my vision, only to find I am not anywhere I’ve seen before. I have no memory of this room, but it looks too fancy for a cheap hotel where I will be potentially pimped out by Leone.
The ceiling draws my attention, the patterns and carvings are something that look like they belong in a museum, vastly different from my bland bedroom with its cobwebs in the corners and clothes strewn about carelessly. This is not my room. This is not my bed.
My heart lurches, and panic sets in as I struggle against the bindings at my wrists, disconcertingly hard against the rawness of my skin. The vast expanse of the king-sized bed beneath me feels more like a jail than a place of rest. I writhe, twisting to look over my shoulder, the blonde waves of my hair falling messily across my face, only to find massive bay windows lining the walls. I try to sit up, but the pull on my ankles has me looking down to find the same bindings tied to them. The only arm free is the one in a sling, and otherwise useless to me.
Just then, a voice breaks the silence, making me turn my head. “About time.” Leone’s deep, baritone voice has me freezing as I look for him.
My eyes rake over the room, taking in the plush crimson carpet that seems to drown the floor in blood and the ornate furnishings that mock me with their stillness. I spot him sitting in an armchair in the corner, his foot resting on his knee as he casually reads a newspaper as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
“I was wondering when you would wake up,” he states, calmly turning the page as if my captivity is the most normal thing in the world.
