The urge to crush Isabella under my thumb pulses like a living thing, a dark hunger clawing through my veins. It’s not enough to bend her—it’s the thought of breaking her, grinding her defiance into dust until she’s on her knees, trembling, utterly mine. Every shudder, every flicker of fear in her wide, innocent eyes, it’s fucking intoxicating, stoking an addiction I didn’t know I had.

She’s a vision, a forbidden one, with that silken hair I want to twist into a leash, her soft curves pressed against me earlier today still burning in my memory. Step Siblings or not, the age gap be damned, Tess is a fever in my blood, her fear a shot of adrenaline straight to my cock. That moment when I pinned her, feeling her body yield under mine—it wasn’t planned, but it woke something feral, something I can’t shake.

All afternoon, I’ve watched her. She plays the part with others, that polite smile a brittle mask, but it vanishes when her gaze meets mine, replaced by a guarded edge that only makes me want to tear it down. She’s never once softened for me, her claws out from the start, and fuck if that doesn’t make me want to push harder. I don’t want her to break too easily. I want her to fight, to bare her teeth, to show me what she’s made of before I strip it all away.

She’s barely touched her food, nursing whiskey and a sip of champagne. The last thing I need is her drunk, stumbling through our parents’ wedding, drawing eyes for all the wrong reasons. I grab a bottle of water, pouring it with deliberate calm, and slide the glass toward her. She flinches, her whole body betraying her nerves.

“Drink,” I commanded, my voice low, unyielding.

“I’m not thirsty,” she snaps, defiance sparking in her tone.

“It’s an order.”

She huffs but obeys, her throat working as she swallows. The sight of her wet lips, the way she submits despite herself, sends a dark thrill through me, primal and possessive. I want her on her knees, begging, broken, mine. The thought surges, raw and unbidden, and I shove it down, rising abruptly to escape the pull of her.

I cross the room to my father and Helena, forcing a smile. “Can I steal Helena for a dance?”

My father beams, oblivious, handing over his bride. The music is soft, classical, a veneer of civility over the undercurrent of power in the room. Helena moves with me, her smile tight, the tension around her eyes betraying her unease. She’s never been comfortable with what I am—the head of the mafia, the shadow that owns Vancouver. She hides it well, but not well enough.

“About Isabella,” I say, cutting to the point. “You’ve been covering her expenses.”

“Yes,” she replies, cautious, like she’s stepping around a trap.

“I’ll take over from today.” My tone leaves no room for argument.

Her brow lifts, a flicker of surprise. “Oh… it’s not much. I don’t mind.”

I pin her with a look, letting the weight of my authority settle. “It wasn’t a question.”

She falters, her expression tightening. “Of course. I’ll email you everything before we leave for the honeymoon.”

“Good.” I nod, releasing her as the song ends, guiding her back to my father’s side.

Then I go towards Bella , my hand extended, a challenge in my stare. “Dance with me.”

Her eyes flash with defiance, fear warring beneath it, but she places her hand in mine. It’s small, delicate, swallowed by my grip as I pull her up and lead her to the dance floor. I draw her close, my hand pressing hard against her lower back, forcing her body flush against mine. Her breath catches, her eyes snapping to mine, fresh fear blooming in them.

“Don’t you dare make a fucking scene,” I murmur, my voice a low growl.

“This is inappropriate,” she hisses through clenched teeth, her body rigid.

A dark chuckle escapes me. “You think I care? The sooner you realize I own you—every inch of you, just like I own this city and everyone in it—the better.”

My gaze takes over her face, her beauty a constant revelation, each glance uncovering something new to covet. It hits me—she must draw men like moths to a flame. The thought twists something ugly in my chest, and before I can stop myself, I ask, “Are you a virgin?”

Her lips part, shock giving way to fury. “How dare you ask me that?”

“I need to know this for your future husband .”

Amore

“Don’t call me that ,” she snarls, wrenching herself from my grip. “And you can go to hell.”

She storms out of the hall, head high, defiance blazing. But I’m not done. The hunger to push her, to see how far she’ll go before she cracks, pulls me after her like a predator trailing prey.

To be continued