Claiming What's Mine

Chapter 4: Sofia

One year ago...

I hiccup and clap a hand over my mouth.

I rarely drink, but the champagne went down far too easily tonight. I need to lie down upstairs until my head clears. My parents are entertaining guests from out of town, so sneaking away shouldn't be a problem with about fifty people in the house.

I grasp the railing to steady myself and climb the darkened staircase at the back of the house. During the early nineteen-hundreds, a large household staff employed by the Valentini family used this set of steps to move unobtrusively throughout the mansion. A shadow looms over me when I reach the second floor. Even though I can't make out his features, my body instinctively senses his presence.

Regardless of my feelings for Roman Santori, I'm fully aware of him on a physical level. It's always been this way and nothing-not his contempt, chilled demeanor, or indifference-has changed it.

My attraction to him feels pathological at times.

I've spent a lot of time trying to figure out and rationalize my strange obsession with him. Ironically, I'm in the last year of my graduate counseling program, and I'm unable to come to any rational conclusion as to why I can't move past my attraction for this man.

There's no logical explanation for it, which only makes my situation more unnerving.

I hastily step back, forgetting that I'm standing at the edge of the landing. Roman's hands wrap around my forearms and yank me forward until I crash into his body with my palms splayed across his solid chest. My hazy brain registers that his pecs are just as sculpted and chiseled as they appeared to be all the times I sneaked peeks at him during workouts. Before I can catch my breath, he spins us around so that I'm no longer in danger of tumbling down the stairs and shoves me away.

“Are you drunk?" he snarls, accusation and something I can't identify tinging his voice.

His misplaced anger scrapes at something inside me-the irrational part I keep buried deep down that has been foolishly begging for his attention.

Needing distance, I unsteadily step away from him. I came upstairs hoping to clear my head, and now it feels more muddled than ever. This is the effect Roman has on me. Every damn time. And I'm tired of it. Tired of wishing for something he's unwilling or incapable of giving me.

“Hardly," I mutter.

Even in the darkness, his contemptuous glare singes my flesh. “I think you are," he counters.

“Well, it really doesn't matter what you think, now does it?" I retort, enjoying my newfound bravado. I'm done with Roman's tight-fisted hold on me. I want to break free of it for once and for all.

He sucks in a sharp breath and releases it. “You're right, princess. What you do is of no consequence to me." Coldness fills his voice. His scorn could shatter me into a million jagged pieces.

I grind my teeth in aggravation.

I haven't been in his company for more than two minutes, and already my buzz has disappeared. I have no idea why he calls me “princess." I may be Enzo Valentini's youngest daughter, but I'm no pampered mafia princess by any stretch of the imagination. I don't live at the compound. I hold a job. And I don't take money from my parents. I suspect that he does it to piss me off, which makes no sense.

But, then again, nothing this man does makes the least bit of sense.

I whirl away without another word. All I want is to find my room and lay down for a bit. Roman isn't my father. Or my brother. Or my boyfriend.

His disapproval means nothing to me.

Well, it should mean nothing to me.

His hand shoots out and snakes around my wrist. I gasp as my back flattens against the wall and Roman's hard body presses against mine, trapping me in place.

“Do you understand that it's dangerous for a young woman to lower her guard by getting drunk?"

Of course, I understand that. I'm not an i***t.

If I were on a college campus or at rowdy downtown bar, I'd agree with him. A situation like that has the potential to end badly. I'm one of Enzo Valentini's daughters, which makes me a walking target for anyone with an axe to grind. It's one of the reasons I don't venture out much. Or drink.

“I'm in my own home," I quietly remind him. “I'm perfectly safe."

Fury flashes in his dark eyes. “Are you?" He snarls, the guttural sound setting off warning bells in my head. “There are men milling around, people who have been invited here tonight who you don't know. Any one of them could take advantage of the situation you now find yourself in."

My throat constricts as his words somersault through my head. I lift my chin. “None of them would dare to touch me." I can't imagine any of my father's men or friends laying a finger on me. Not if they want to keep theirs intact. Most just acknowledge my presence and carry on with their work.

His fingers manacle my wrists, yanking them above my head and shackling them to the wall.

My breath stutters as my eyes widen in shock. “Roman, what are you doing?"

I never say his name out loud.

I try not to even think it in my head.

The carefully controlled persona he normally exudes falls away.

“Teaching you a much-needed lesson, princess."

Before I can rein it in, a whimper escapes my lips. I don't know if it's because I want him to relinquish the punishing hold he has on me or if I want to push the boundaries to see what will happen next. It's no secret that I want Roman. I've dreamed about what his hands would feel like coasting over my body. I've longed for his lips to possess mine. I crave him on a physical level, no matter how menacing his behavior toward me is.

It's maddening.

Roman emits an animalistic growl and slams his mouth onto mine. His kiss is hard and rough like a violent storm devastating a rocky shoreline. Battering the landscape. Leaving havoc in its place. This is anger and frustration fused together in its most elemental and explosive form.

I realize that I'm consenting to forced submission by allowing him to exert his will on me. I should fight tooth and nail, rebelling against the firm grip he has on me.

But I don't.

How can I bring myself to push Roman away when I've craved this, craved him, for so long?

Those thoughts are so disturbing. I don't know what's wrong with me.

Growing up, my parents were loving and affectionate. There is no circle of abuse or violence that needs to be broken. Deep in the recesses of my mind, I know I shouldn't enjoy this rough treatment.

But I am. There's no denying the adrenaline-infused desire pumping wildly through my veins.

At twenty-six, I'm no virgin. I've had my fair share of boyfriends over the past seven years, but no one has ever manhandled me. No one has ever trapped me against a wall and held me captive while taking what he wanted.

Roman's mouth is harsh and demanding. I'd normally find this frightening, but I willingly open for him. His tongue invades my mouth, plundering the inside. It lashes and tangles with mine until everything in me clamors with frenzied need.

When I try to break free from the ironclad grip imprisoning my hands, he tightens his hold. His mouth leaves mine, blazing a hot trail across my chin and down my neck.

“I want to touch you," I murmur, baring my throat.

“No," he mutters, licking and sucking at my flesh. “You have no f*****g idea what you're doing, do you?"

I'm not sure what the question means. Does he find me inexperienced or lacking sexually?

With a snarl, he releases me and moves away. I'm more dazed now than I was earlier from the alcohol. My mouth feels bruised and tender. Without thinking, I take a step toward him. I want the warmth of his hard body pinning mine against the wall again as his thick erection presses into my belly.

Knowing he wants me in that manner is a revelation.

“No!" he snaps, the harshness in his tone slicing through the mental fog clouding my better judgment.

His fingers wrap around my upper arm. He drags me down the dark hallway.

I stumble while trying to keep up with him as my heart thuds against my ribcage.

Before I can gather my scattered wits, we're standing at the threshold of my childhood bedroom. Holding me firmly in his viselike grip, he reaches out with his other hand and grabs the handle. He throws open the door and shoves me inside.

I stagger, catching myself before I fall. My head still spins from the alcohol and his drugging kisses. My eyes dart to the door in shock as he slams it shut, leaving me inside.

Alone.

I don't move a muscle as the last five minutes play out in my head. Did that really happen?

My fingers fly to my lips for confirmation. They're sore and swollen, which proves I didn't imagine anything.

If I'm smart, I'll avoid Roman like the plague.

But I'm not smart. I've already proven that time and time again.