THE DEVIL'S CAPTIVE ( 18+ )

chapter 8: The Devil's Captive

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**Part 7: The Devil's Captive**

**the shadow king**

I leaned back in my chair, letting out a slow, deep breath as Emily's hands pressed against my shoulders. Her fingers were hesitant, unsure, and I could sense her discomfort. Good. I wanted her to feel that way, to understand that she was completely under my control.

"Is this how you plan to massage me, Emily? Pathetic," I taunted, my voice a low growl. "Put some strength into it, or do you need me to teach you how to do everything?"

Her hands trembled slightly, but she obeyed, pressing harder. I smirked, feeling the tension ease from my muscles. Despite her reluctance, her touch was soothing, and I hated that. I didn’t want to find any comfort in her touch or anything about her. She was just a pawn, a means to an end.

"You think you’re so strong, don't you?" I continued, my voice cold and mocking. "Thinking you can resist me, that you have some kind of power here. But you don't, Emily. You're here because I want you here. And you'll do as I say, whenever I say it."

Her hands stilled for a moment, and I felt a surge of anger. I didn’t want her to stop. I wanted her to keep massaging, keep bending to my will, keep feeling that fear.

"Did I say you could stop?" I snapped, twisting my head to look at her. Her eyes were wide, full of a mix of anger and fear.

"No, Luca," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I'm sorry."

"Good," I replied, turning back around and closing my eyes. "Now keep going, and don't make me tell you again."

As her hands resumed their movements, I tried to focus on my thoughts, on the plan. I needed to stay sharp, needed to remind myself that this was all part of a bigger picture. Emily was just a piece on the board, a tool to get to her father. Nothing more, nothing less.

But as her hands moved over my shoulders, I felt something stir inside me—something I hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t attraction or even desire; it was a strange sense of calm. A feeling that I didn’t need to be the Shadow King, didn’t need to be Luca Moretti, the ruthless mafia boss.

I pushed the thought away, tightening my grip on the armrests. I couldn’t afford to get distracted, couldn’t afford to let my guard down. Not now, not ever.

"Remember this, Emily," I said, my voice low and dangerous. "Every time you touch me, every time you do something for me, you're paying for your father's sins. You're here because of him, and you will suffer because of him. Understand?"

She nodded, her movements becoming more mechanical, more robotic. I could tell she was trying to hold back tears, trying to keep herself together.

"Good," I said, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction. "Because I’m not done with you yet."

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As I let Emily’s hands rest on my shoulders, I could hear her stomach growl. It was loud, and for a moment, I thought I imagined it. But then it happened again, a rumbling sound that echoed through the quiet room. I turned slightly, catching the embarrassed flush on her cheeks as she tried to keep her face neutral.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, my tone sharper than I intended.

Emily nodded hesitantly, clearly expecting some sort of punishment for admitting it.

I wanted to ignore it, to pretend like I didn’t care. But something in me twisted at the thought of her sitting here, trying to massage my shoulders while she was starving. I looked at her for a moment, her eyes downcast, her body tense, and I felt a pang of something I couldn't quite name. Guilt, maybe?

I sighed. "What do you want to eat?"

She looked up, surprised, as if she hadn’t expected me to ask. "Um... I don’t know. Just... food?"

"Be specific," I demanded, already pulling out my phone. "I’m not a mind reader."

She blinked, then rattled off a list of food that made my eyebrows rise: "Pizza, burgers, fries, pasta, sushi, ice cream, maybe some donuts... Oh, and a chocolate milkshake!"

I stared at her, my expression flat. "Are you listing food, or giving me a tour of every restaurant in the city?"

Emily blushed again, looking away. "Sorry, I’m just really hungry."

I rolled my eyes but couldn't help the small smirk tugging at my lips. "Fine, whatever. I’ll get it all." I was a billionaire, after all. A few extra dishes wouldn't make a dent.

It didn’t take long for the food to arrive, filling the room with the delicious scent of various cuisines. Emily’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning, and she dove in, devouring everything with a speed that was almost impressive. I watched, amused at first, but then my stomach gave a growl of its own.

"Save some for me," I warned as she polished off the last of the fries, but it was too late. The table was empty, save for a few crumbs and sauce smears. I stared at her, incredulous. "You ate it all?"

Emily looked up, her face guilty yet satisfied. "I... I guess I did," she admitted, trying not to smile.

I groaned, rubbing my forehead. I was hungry too, and now there was nothing left. "You know what? Since you’re so full of energy now, you can make something for me to eat."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "But... I can't cook."

"Too bad," I said, leaning back in my chair with a mocking grin. "Consider it a punishment for eating all my food. Go on, get to the kitchen."

Emily looked terrified but didn’t dare argue. She shuffled to the kitchen, casting nervous glances back at me. I waited, half-expecting her to come back and admit defeat. But to my surprise, she didn’t. She spent the next hour in there, the sound of pots clattering and something sizzling reaching my ears.

Finally, she emerged, holding a plate of something that looked... well, it looked like a burnt brick. It was black, charred, and definitely not edible.

"What the hell is this?" I asked, staring at the blackened mess.

Emily bit her lip, looking both embarrassed and defiant. "It’s... it’s supposed to be an omelette."

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. A real, genuine laugh. "An omelette? It looks like you cooked a piece of coal."

She pouted, crossing her arms. "Well, excuse me for not being a master chef. You told me to cook, and I did."

I shook my head, still chuckling. "This is by far the worst thing I’ve ever seen come out of a kitchen. How did you even manage this?"

Emily huffed, glaring at me. "Maybe if you weren’t such a jerk, you’d get better food."

I raised an eyebrow, enjoying the fire in her eyes. "You’ve got a lot of nerve talking to me like that."

"And you’ve got a lot of nerve making me cook when you know I can't," she shot back.

For a moment, we just stared at each other, the tension thick in the air. But then, as if on cue, we both started laughing. It was ridiculous, the whole situation, and somehow in that moment, all the anger and hostility faded away, leaving something softer, something almost... pleasant.

"Alright, alright," I said, holding up my hands in surrender. "Let’s call it a truce. No more cooking disasters, okay?"

Emily nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Deal."

As I looked at her, I realized I didn’t mind this side of her—the one that was fiery, stubborn, and surprisingly amusing. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to Emily than I initially thought.

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