Ira's pov

I wasn’t sure why he called me to his room that evening. But by now, I had stopped expecting reasons from Luca Moretti. He was the kind of man who tore through lives and didn’t bother to look back at the wreckage.

I entered slowly, my hands dusted with dish soap and the scent of lemon still clinging to my nails. He stood in front of the tall mirror, shirtless, black trousers hanging low on his hips, cigarette between his lips. Smoke curled like a snake around his face.

"Come here," he said, not looking at me.

I walked forward, slowly, warily.

"Pick a shirt. And dress me."

I stared at him. "What?"

He turned his head, eyes narrowing. "Do I need to repeat myself, moglie mia?"

My hands fumbled as I opened the closet and pulled out a crisp white shirt. I approached him, heart thudding. His gaze never left my face.

As I raised the shirt, my fingers brushed his arm, and he tensed. Or maybe I did.

I slipped the shirt onto his arms, then began buttoning it. My fingers were clumsy. His skin was warm, and I was too aware of his breath, the heat between us.

"You tremble like I’m going to eat you," he murmured.

"You act like you already have," I shot back before I could stop myself.

His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist. Not hard. But enough.

"What did you say?"

I met his eyes, pulse racing. "Nothing."

"No, say it again."

I pulled my hand back. "At least I wasn’t born to hurt people for fun."

Silence.

Luca stepped closer, dangerously close. His breath touched my cheek.

"You think you know me, ragazza? You don’t even know what I am."

He turned suddenly, walked to the window. Then, just as quickly, he spun back and stormed toward me.

His hand grabbed my chin, forcing me to look up.

"Don’t you ever mistake my mercy for weakness. I could have broken you a hundred times."

"Then why didn’t you?" I whispered.

His lips hovered near mine. "Because I like watching you fall apart slowly."

The room spun with heat and hatred. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to slap him or cry.

Then he did something worse.

"You stink of sweat and pity," he said. "You need a bath. Now."

I froze.

"W-what?"

He dragged me to his marble bathroom. I tried to pull back. "Luca—"

"Strip."

I gasped. "You—you can’t—"

He stepped closer. "Either you undress yourself, or I do it for you. You choose the shame."

Hands shaking, I turned around and slowly began undoing my dress. I couldn’t look at him. I refused.

He didn’t touch me.

But I felt his eyes on every inch of exposed skin. The water ran behind me as he turned the tap on. Then silence. I was naked by bottom bare my boobs exposed

"Get in."

I stepped into the warm bath, trying not to sob.

I washed in silence, skin burning not from heat but from humiliation. He stood outside the tub, leaning against the sink, watching.

When I stepped out, he handed me a towel like a king throwing scraps.

"Get dressed and wait in the library. Don’t test me."

---

The library smelled of aged pages and cigar smoke. He was already there, sitting in his usual chair, glass of scotch in hand.

I stepped inside, now wearing one of the long black dresses his mother had selected for me.

"Come here."

I approached.

He stood.

"You think you can look at me like that again? Talk back like you did earlier?"

I kept silent.

He stepped close.

Too close.

My back hit the bookshelf.

He caged me in with his arms, face inches from mine.

"Tell me again what you said about me hurting people for fun. Go on."

"You are cruel," I said. "You enjoy breaking people."

His hand curled around my waist. Not gentle. Not painful. Just claiming.

"And you enjoy testing my patience."

He leaned in, lips brushing my ear.

"You think I want to kiss you, Ira? I want to own you. That’s different."

I gasped as he pulled back, staring down at me.

Then suddenly, he turned and walked away, the heat between us left smoking in his absence.

---

That night, I found myself in his bed.

Not by choice. I had collapsed there, too tired to reach the servant quarters.

He walked in around midnight. Saw me.

"You forgot your place, again."

I sat up groggily. "I—I didn’t mean to—"

He didn’t yell.

He crossed the room, grabbed my ankle, dragged me toward the edge of the bed.

His body loomed over mine.

"You sleep in my bed like you deserve it."

"I am your wife," I whispered.

"You are my possession."

His hand touched my face, and for a second—a breath—I thought he might kiss me.

But he pulled back.

"I could ruin you. W

ith just one hand. But I want you to beg for it first."

He left.

And I lay there, wondering if maybe being ruined wouldn’t have been the kinder option.