Chapter 4 Devil's Bride

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Chapter 4: The Devil's Bride

The house was too quiet.

Too clean.

Too his.

Amira sat at the edge of the grand four-poster bed in the master suite - their suite now - clutching the robe she hadn't realized she'd been wringing in her hands. Her suitcase had been unpacked by invisible staff, her clothes folded into drawers that weren't hers, her shoes lined up with surgical precision beneath polished walnut shelves. The closet smelled faintly of cedarwood, aged scotch, and expensive cologne.

His scent. Everywhere. It wrapped around her like a chain.

She hated it.

She hated the luxury, the eerie silence, the opulence that whispered ownership. She hated the softness of the silk sheets she didn't ask for, hated how her things now sat among his - like her identity had been folded neatly and stored beside his dominance.

But most of all, she hated the part of her that felt... seen.

Marriage to Leonardo Moretti wasn't supposed to stir anything but resentment. She was here to fight. To survive. To win.

Yet her body hadn't gotten that memo.

It reacted to him like a traitor - skin flushing when he entered a room, breath hitching when he looked at her like she was a riddle he enjoyed unraveling.

And that look - God, that look. Like he was always one step away from breaking her, but savoring every second of restraint.

A knock shattered the silence.

Not him. Too soft.

"Mrs. Moretti?" a woman's voice filtered through the thick oak door. "The family is expecting you in the sunroom."

Family.

Right. She was a wife now. A daughter-in-law in the devil's house.

---

The sunroom dripped old money and quiet judgment. It wasn't decorated - it was curated, like a museum built to remind her that power didn't need to scream to be deadly.

Leonardo's mother sat perched like royalty on a pale velvet settee. She looked as though she'd been carved from ice - elegant, glacial, with a silver bob that gleamed like steel. Her posture was perfect. Her eyes sharper than any courtroom dagger.

Chiara, Leonardo's younger sister, offered a polite smile - the kind that didn't touch her eyes.

Amira returned it in kind.

"So," the matriarch began, swirling something clear and undoubtedly lethal in her crystal glass. "A lawyer from Nigeria. How...unexpected."

Amira kept her spine straight, her chin high. "Unexpected things tend to be the most effective, ma'am."

Chiara coughed lightly, masking a smirk. The mother's expression didn't shift an inch.

"Leonardo rarely brings women home," she said, voice cool. "You must have... impressed him."

Amira smiled, sweet and sharp. "Or maybe he needed someone who wouldn't be impressed by him."

The air tightened.

And then came footsteps - heavy, deliberate - and Leonardo entered like he owned time itself.

Tall. Impeccable. Dangerous.

His eyes found her instantly, sliding over her with something darker than admiration.

"Mother," he said, voice smooth as silk over stone, "try not to ruin my wife before dinner."

His mother didn't blink. "Of course. But be careful, Leo. You know how quickly fire burns out."

Amira rose, her tone laced with venomous grace. "Only if it's not fed properly."

His grin was subtle. But dangerous.

---

Dinner passed in a blur of polished silverware and polite warfare. The wine was French, the tension Italian, and the performance exhausting.

Later, the house quieted, cloaked in the kind of stillness that felt like a held breath.

Amira stood by the floor-to-ceiling window in their room, arms crossed as she watched night bleed across the estate. Lights dotted the sprawling grounds, casting long shadows. This place didn't feel like a home. It felt like a kingdom - and she a prisoner with a diamond collar.

She didn't hear him enter.

She only felt his presence behind her, thick as heat.

"You were magnificent today," Leonardo said, voice a low hum at her back.

"You mean I didn't embarrass you in front of your aristocratic mother?"

"I mean you held your ground. Even she noticed."

He came closer. She could feel him, his energy brushing her spine.

"You didn't need to save me," she said coldly.

"I didn't." His hand reached around her, fingertips grazing the hollow of her throat.

Amira stiffened. "Don't."

He didn't move away. Instead, he was maddeningly gentle - brushing the strap of her bra off her shoulder with the back of a knuckle.

"You can say no, Amira," he murmured. "But you haven't."

His touch wasn't rough. It wasn't rushed. It was patient. Controlled. And somehow more dangerous than violence.

"You think just because you can buy me, you can touch me whenever you want?"

"No." He leaned in, lips brushing just beneath her ear. "But I think you want me to."

She cursed the heat pooling low in her belly. The way her knees nearly gave in.

He turned her slowly, forcing her to face him. His eyes, storm-dark, locked onto hers.

Then he kissed her.

Hard. Hungry. Claiming.

It wasn't soft.

It was war.

His hands gripped her hips, pulling her into him. She gasped - not from surprise, but from how quickly her defenses crumbled.

Her robe slipped. His jacket hit the floor. His mouth found her throat, trailing fire.

She shoved at him - not to stop, but to push him harder against the wall, teeth grazing his jaw. He groaned, and she hated how it thrilled her.

"Still want to pretend you don't want this?" he growled against her skin.

"Still want to pretend this is love?" she fired back, breathless.

He froze. Eyes on hers. For a second, something unreadable flickered behind them.

"This isn't love," he said finally, voice low. "This is war."

"Then let's burn...