Shattered Throne: A Dark Mafia Romance: War of Roses Universe (Mice and Men Book 3) - Lana Sky (top romance novels .TXT) 📗

“I’ve seen you naked,” he recites, providing his growled version of narration. It’s unsettling how aggressive he makes me sound. Bold. “I’ve violated you, seen you, touched you… What do I define as sex?” His tone deepens with a rare hint of unease. I wish I could savor it, but my heart is racing. Especially when he utters gruffly, “You want to codify your virginity?”

I drop the pen, letting the thud as it meets the desk speak for me. Why not?

I face him, allowing him to see the dare I know lurks in my expression. What does Donatello Vanici deem corruption? Something more than kissing. Touching. More than looming over someone as they experience a twisted sense of intimacy.

I want him to flinch. Cringe. Admit his shame.

He laughs in my face.

“Oh, principessa. If I wanted you…” He strokes my cheek again, this time letting his nail graze the tender skin. “You’d know it. I’d have my cock inside of you, for one. You’d feel my seed against your womb, and you wouldn’t need to ask what corruption feels like. Don’t be fooled by our little games. Your worth to me has only ever extended to who your father is, and the role you play. Willow Stepanova.”

A lie. I know it is. Confident of that, I withstand his mocking laughter without flinching. I don’t turn away.

Instead, I grapple for the pen and write.

So kissing isn’t corruption?

Or seeing me naked or telling me to touch myself. The list goes on and on, but in the world of Donatello Vanici, those count merely as a game—one he thinks I’m too bashful to play. But he’s wrong.

In all other ways, he’s stripped my identity, but he can’t break this one last boundary. The same reckless impulse that infected me in the elevator strikes again. I step away from the desk, dropping the pen. Using that same hand, I grip the neckline of my dress, tugging on the fabric the way he exposed his scars to Kisa.

My display isn’t quite so dramatic. This body doesn’t contain nearly the same number of secrets his does. The cool air tickles my exposed skin, rousing a reaction I can’t suppress. He notices, his eyes darting from my face, to my body and back.

I’ve made my point but, breathing heavily, I keep going, dragging the fabric down as far as I can. My breasts creep beneath the modest neckline first. Then one nipple. Another.

Narrowed to slits, his eyes rebel, raking over my body to snatch glimpses of what he claims to not desire.

The attention is proof enough—he’s a liar.

I can read it so clearly in his gaze; it’s laughable. How his eyes narrow over my bared breasts, tracing a path down my stomach as if he can’t help himself.

“Enough,” he hisses, his voice so detached I stiffen. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

Shame nibbles away at my resolve. Maybe I’m wrong? Or not. He’s always been like this, able to easily turn the tables.

The only way to ever defeat him has been via one method, and one method only.

Play dirty.

Slowly, I raise my hand, dragging my fingers sloppily over my own skin. Why exactly? I don’t have a clear aim in mind—not until I see his eyes widen. The tip of my index finger is nearing the swell of my breast. Closer…

I’ve never explored myself like this. Not even that night in his bed did I feel this exposed. On display. Doubt creeps in. I almost give in to the overwhelming impulse urging me to stop. Hide.

Somehow, the sight of a muscle lurching in his jaw gives me the strength needed to keep going, grazing the peak entirely. A jolt shoots through me as his eyes cut to slits.

So, I do it again.

The strange sensation continues to build as I swipe over the tip of a nipple a third time. I hate the feeling. But I repeat the action, watching him all the while.

Again.

Again.

I barely see him move before his fingers latch over my wrist, ripping my hand away. “Don’t—”

He breaks off, releasing me, but the reaction is proof enough. After all this time, he can’t bring himself to tarnish his precious little Safy.

How noble of him.

Tears sting my eyes, and for a second, I almost can’t swallow down the wave of bile that rises up my throat. It’s sick to think this way. Objectively I know it’s insane. Disgusting. Wrong.

But I’m not that girl anymore. No one can ever use that past against me, least of all him.

He taunts me with corruption.

I’ll give him something far better than that. My head is throbbing with the weight of the twisted, insane need for revenge—but it feels better than wallowing in hate.

I’ll make him sully the part of me he’s left untouched. I’ll make him destroy me.

He takes a step back as if reading my intentions. So, I move forward, clinging to this newfound power. Step by step, I invade his personal space.

He lets me come close. Close enough to feel his breath. To choke on his scent and be reminded in vivid detail of the other night. As his eyes darken, I even get a glimpse of the fleeting look I saw in him then. Fear.

Then he blinks, and he’s ice. “You think you can seduce me?” His breath is hot against my exposed throat. “Stick to the boys around your little manor. You have some appeal as a captive toy to dangle over Mischa’s head, but apart from that? You aren’t woman enough.”

I almost falter. Almost. Any other time, I’d retreat to lick my wounds. He’s anticipating as much, lowering his gaze to my mouth as if waiting for my so-called tell to appear.

Instead, I lift my hand to his jaw, pressing my fingers against the hard plane of it. His frown is an electric twitch of muscle, but I keep going, copying the way he stroked my mouth, tracing the seam of his lips with my thumb. His are larger than mine, alarmingly soft. I’m nearing the middle when they