I was sent to capture the CIA's most wanted fugitive.
But things took a tragic turn,
My entire team was murdered before my eyes, and I was kidnapped by said fugitive.
It seemed like my government had forgotten me and I became a puppet for the fugi...
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He was here.
I know because his woody, oud cologne still lingers on the sheets. A dreamlike memory of being pressed against his chest plays on a loop in my mind. But why he was here? That’s the question I’m yet to answer as I push off the bed and drag myself toward the door. Pressing my ear to the cold wood, I strain to hear any sound—anything to confirm my suspicions.
Nothing.
Just deafening silence. It’s as if he vanished into thin air, leaving behind only his scent and a mess of thoughts. I shake off the shiver crawling up my spine and turn back to the closet, determined to find something—anything—that could pass for clothes.
I tear through the closet in a frenzy, searching for the smallest boxer briefs that might fit me. But no matter how hard I search, nothing. Fucking nothing. My frustration boils over, rage simmering beneath my skin. I need to punch something—anything—to forget the grim reality that my government sold me like cattle to a fucking psychopath.
“Is that really what you think of me?”
His voice—deep, cold, and entirely too calm—freezes me in place.
“You can punch me, if it helps you blow off some steam, Diavoletto.” The way he says it, like a challenge, a dare, stirs something dark inside me.
I don’t hesitate. I whirl around and throw a punch at his scarred yet infuriatingly pretty face. It lands hard, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s a fucking human wall, standing there like my fist was nothing more than a mosquito bite. I throw another, and this time, his head snaps to the side, but his eyes—those heterochromatic eyes, one dark as midnight, the other an icy blue—snap back to mine. Unmoving. Unbreakable.
He steps forward, and the dim light in the closet makes his eyes gleam—cold, lifeless, deadly. I want to fuck up his face more, to break that serene mask he wears like armor. But I restrain myself. Barely.
“I refuse to marry a narcissistic, incorrigible, evil, wicked, murderous psychopath like you!” My voice cracks, tears threatening to spill from my eyes as frustration burns through my throat. “This is not happening. I refuse!” I scream louder, desperate for any reaction, but he just stands there, cold and composed.
He closes the space between us until our toes are touching—bare toes. He’s fucking barefoot. My eyes drop, and I realize his usual suit and belt are gone, replaced by a black dress shirt that matches mine. His suit pants hang loose on his hips.
Before I can process it, he grabs me. One strong hand curls around my neck, the other snakes around my waist, yanking me against him.
Testosterone. Strength. Masculinity.
His heat pours into me, every inch of his body commanding mine to submit. His lips brush my ear, and when he speaks, it’s a low, dangerous whisper. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice in the matter, Mio Diavoletto.” The grip on my waist tightens, sending a shiver straight to my core. “You and I are going to stand in front of a christened altar in Vatican City and say 'I do.'”
