Chapter 3 His Home

Isla POV

The jacket was warm. Too warm.

It smelled like him-smoke, spice, something faintly metallic and dark. Power, distilled into scent. Rocco draped it around my shoulders without looking at me, without saying a word. It hung heavy on my small frame, swallowing me whole, the tailored shoulders too broad, the sleeves brushing my fingertips.

He didn't button it. Just placed it on me like I was some fragile thing that needed covering.

Maybe I was.

The silk dress pooled silently at my feet a moment later, stripped away with no ceremony, no time to think. One second I was standing in it, trembling. The next, I was bare beneath Vince Moretti's jacket, wrapped in his scent, his possession.

I stepped carefully over the discarded fabric, heart slamming, legs shaky.

"Come on," Rocco muttered, already walking.

I followed.

The corridor was long and dim, lined with walls too clean, too white, like a hospital or a mausoleum. My bare feet padded against the tile, echoing slightly. I felt small. So, so small.

We reached the garage. A sleek black car waited for us-low, aggressive, and utterly silent. Vince was already inside, seated in the back, his silhouette barely visible through the tinted glass. The door opened without a sound.

Rocco held out a hand, and for a second I thought he meant to help me in. But he didn't. He only waited for me to move.

I climbed in, my fingers fumbling for balance, my knees wobbling. The leather seat was cold against the back of my thighs, and I tugged the jacket tighter around myself like it could protect me.

The door closed behind me with a soft click.

Then we were moving.

The silence inside the car was unbearable.

Vince didn't speak. He didn't look at me. He sat with one elbow against the door, head turned toward the window, jaw flexing like he was grinding glass between his teeth.

And then, just when the quiet had stretched too thin to bear, his voice cut through it.

Low.

Rough.

Unmistakably his.

"What's your name?"

I blinked.

It felt like a trick. Like answering might trap me in something I couldn't escape.

I gripped the edge of his jacket tighter and forced my voice to work. "Isla," I whispered. "My name is Isla."

He turned then. Just slightly. Just enough that his eyes could find me.

Those eyes.

Amber. Gold. Ice.

A slow flicker passed through them-approval? Curiosity? Hunger? I couldn't tell. His stare pinned me to the seat like a nail through silk.

"Isla," he repeated, testing it. His voice wrapped around it, made it sound different. Possessed.

He didn't say anything else.

He didn't have to.

The way he said my name-it was already a vow.

A claim.

Then he turned back to the window as if the moment had never happened.

The city passed us by in golden smears of light. But I didn't look out. I looked at him.

His profile was sharp. His eyes unreadable in the dark. One hand rested casually on his thigh, the other near the control panel-long fingers, strong, still. The air felt charged around him. Like if he turned to me, if he spoke, the world might shift.

He didn't.

I curled inward slightly, trying to disappear into the folds of his jacket.

I didn't ask where we were going.

Because I already knew.

His home. His fortress. The place I'd belong to now.

His property.

The ride lasted forever and not long enough. When the car finally turned off the main road, gravel crunched beneath the tires. Tall gates parted without a sound. Trees flanked the drive like sentinels. And then-

A mansion rose out of the darkness.

No, not a mansion.

A kingdom.

Massive. Silent. Cold.

Stone and glass and shadow, stretching wide and high, lit only by the softest golden lights along its edges. Like it didn't need to be seen. Like it knew you'd fear it anyway.

The car pulled up to the front, and the doors opened without a word.

Vince stepped out first.

I followed.

The air outside bit into my skin. I flinched. The jacket wasn't enough anymore.

He didn't wait for me, but he didn't leave me behind either. I walked a step behind him, up the wide marble steps, through a door that opened silently as if the house knew he was coming.

Inside, everything smelled of money and silence.

Vaulted ceilings. Black marble floors. Gold fixtures that caught the light like fire. A chandelier the size of a car hovered above the entrance, dripping crystals like icicles.

But the house was quiet.

Too quiet.

No staff. No footsteps. No voices.

Just the soft thud of my own heartbeat in my ears.

Vince didn't speak until we reached the grand staircase.

He stopped. Turned.

His eyes locked on mine like a knife pressing gently into flesh.

"Upstairs. First door on the left."

His voice was quiet, but sharp enough to cut through bone.

I swallowed hard.

"What's-what's in there?"

He didn't blink.

"Your room."

My room.

I didn't move.

He stepped closer.

"You'll sleep. You'll eat. You'll stay out of sight until I say otherwise."

Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not softness either. Something darker. Possessive.

"You belong to me now, Isla."

My name on his tongue felt like a claim.

Not a whisper.

A brand.

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away-his footsteps disappearing down a different corridor, leaving me alone at the bottom of the staircase, wrapped in his scent, drowning in his silence.

I stood there for a long time before I moved.

And when I finally did, I climbed the stairs slowly, each step heavier than the last.

Because I knew:

The moment I walked through that door...

There was no going back.

The door creaked open with a soft, reluctant sigh.

For a moment, I just stood there-barefoot, trembling, wrapped in a jacket that didn't belong to me-staring into the space Vince Moretti had decided would be mine.

The room wasn't what I expected.

It was beautiful.

Big. Cold. Quiet.

Everything inside it looked expensive, but untouched. As if no one had ever really lived here. Like it had been built to impress, not to comfort.

The floors were dark wood, polished to a mirror sheen. A thick cream rug sprawled across the center like spilled milk. At the far end, a four-poster bed loomed-king-sized, draped in ivory linens, too perfect to touch. A fireplace carved from marble sat beneath a towering mirror, unlit and yawning black.

The walls were pale gray. The curtains were silk. The windows stretched so high they looked like they belonged in a cathedral.

And everything... everything smelled like him.

Leather. Smoke. Winter spice.

I stepped inside slowly, the door closing behind me with a soft click that felt louder than a scream.

I didn't turn back.

There was nowhere to go.

The silence in the room pressed against me. Like the walls were watching. Waiting.

I moved to the bed, every step like walking through molasses. The jacket slipped slightly off one shoulder, exposing skin to the cool air. I clutched it tighter.

I didn't know what I expected-chains? A collar? A camera?

But there was none of that.

Just a vanity against the far wall, its drawers pristine. A closet slightly ajar, revealing empty hangers. A bathroom door standing open, inside gleaming tile and glass and gold. A silent television mounted on the wall across from the bed. A tray of untouched toiletries on the dresser.

No guards. No locks.

Just a room.

A cage dressed like a palace.

I reached the edge of the bed and sank down slowly, my legs finally giving in. The mattress didn't creak. It only accepted me-soft, sinking, swallowing.

I stared at my hands in my lap.

Small. Pale. Shaking.

I didn't cry.

I thought I might.

But the tears wouldn't come.

I was too wrung out. Too hollow.

Instead, I let my eyes wander again, scanning the room for signs of him. Any trace that he'd been here. That he had touched this space. Made it his.

There was nothing.

But the air still carried his presence. Thick. Unmistakable.

As if the room belonged to him.

Which meant it belonged to me now too.

Because I belonged to him.

I hated the way that thought made my heart twist.

I hated the way it made my thighs press together beneath his jacket.

I hated that I could still smell him on the collar.

Suddenly, I needed to escape it.

I stood, shedding the jacket and folding it carefully-too carefully-before placing it on the bed.

Without it, I was naked.

Bare.

I stepped into the bathroom like a ghost.

The lights flickered on with a soft hum, revealing marble counters and a gold-framed mirror. I caught my reflection in it-and flinched.

I didn't recognize the girl staring back.

Flushed cheeks. Wide eyes. Bruised innocence.

She looked like she'd been broken open and stitched shut all in one night.

I stepped closer.

Then closer still.

And then I reached out... and turned the water on.

The sound filled the room. A balm against the silence.

Steam rose.

Heat curled against my skin.

I stepped into the shower without thinking.

Let the water scald.

Let it strip away the night. The fear. The weight of eyes. The sting of words.

Let it wash me clean.

But even as the water poured over me, soaking my hair, stinging my skin-

I knew.

No amount of heat could cleanse what had just happened.

Because Vince Moretti had touched nothing but had taken everything.

And tomorrow... he'd come for the rest.