The Mafia's Runaway Bride

The clock ticked past midnight, but Elara was already lost in the depths of sleep, her exhaustion from the day weighing her down like an anchor. All she wanted was rest—peaceful, uninterrupted rest.

Then, without warning, a crushing weight pressed down on her, pinning her petite frame into the mattress. Panic shot through her veins as her eyes flew open, struggling to adjust to the darkness. And there they were—those piercing, ice-blue eyes, staring down at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

She didn’t need light to recognize him. She knew him—his scent, his touch, the way his breath fanned over her skin.

Damien Blackwood.

Her husband.

"Why are you wearing panties?" His voice was a low, dangerous growl, sending a shiver down her spine. "Did you forget my rule? You don’t wear them in this bed. You stay ready for me."

Elara swallowed hard. She had forgotten. Between the nausea that had plagued her for days and the bone-deep exhaustion, she hadn’t spared a thought for his demands before collapsing into bed.

But excuses wouldn’t work on Damien.

Damien Blackwood—the ruthless Mafia kingpin of Western Italy. Wealthy. Devastatingly handsome. And utterly merciless.

Their marriage wasn’t born of love. It was a transaction—an arrangement forced upon him by his grandfather. Elara, an orphan who had once saved the old man’s life, was deemed the perfect bride for his heir.

And when Damien refused?

His grandfather had threatened to strip him of everything—his empire, his inheritance, his power.

So he married her.

And he hated her for it.

His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back as his other hand ripped the delicate fabric from her body. She gasped, unprepared, as he thrust into her without warning, pain lancing through her.

"Fuck. You’re dry," he sneered, his voice dripping with disgust. "And you smell like sweat and spices. Did you even shower?"

The humiliation burned, but she bit her lip, refusing to cry.

This was nothing new.

Three years of marriage had taught her one thing—Damien would never love her.

Yet, despite his cruelty, his body craved hers. Every. Single. Night.

His lips crashed against hers, his kiss rough, demanding. His fingers found her clit, circling with deliberate precision, coaxing a traitorous response from her body.

She hated herself for reacting.

Hated how her breath hitched when his tongue traced her throat.

Hated the way her hips arched against him, betraying her.

"Ah—Damien!"

The moment his name slipped past her lips, he froze.

His grip tightened, his eyes darkening with fury.

"What did you just call me?" His voice was lethally soft.

Elara’s stomach dropped.

"I—I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood," she stammered.

He had made it clear—she wasn’t allowed to use his first name. That privilege was reserved for family.

For people he actually cared about.

"That’s right," he hissed, his fingers digging into her hips. "You don’t get to say my name."

Then, with a cruel smirk, he licked his fingers—still wet from her—and scoffed. "Disgusting."

But his actions betrayed his words.

Because he kept tasting her.