There are nights you can hear your thoughts in without speaking or screaming. It’s just… breathing. A simple task. Anyone can do. Everyone can do. Soft exhales in the darkness, curling around the room like ghosts with unfinished businesses.

I always loved nights like that. They’re serene. Quiet. Long. And veiled by darkness.

They breathe with you. They don’t speak.

And then there are nights like this. Where silence isn’t peace. It’s pressure. A weight. On your neck. On your chest. On your… back. Thick, hot, masculine weight coiling around your ribs, squeezing until you forget if your heartbeat is yours… or someone else’s.

Tonight feels just like that.

I was ready for anything. By anything, I mean anything. Alien invasion. Pigs flying. Planets revolving anti-clockwise.

Anything would make sense right now, literally anything. Everything but him. I wasn’t ready for him.

Not the scent of smoke and sin laced into my room. The place which was supposed to be my sanctuary. Only where I felt safe and away from his scrutinising gaze. This place doesn’t feel mine anymore.

He didn’t ask. He never did. He entered.

Like a devil entering a chapel.
Like ink spilled on Holy Scripture,
Like prayers after guilt.
Like winter in the lungs of something dying,
Like violence dressed in velvet.

And now he’s everywhere.
In the folds of my pillow.
In the silence between breaths.
In the way the darkness no longer soothes but stares back.

And suddenly, I’m a locked room in a burning house, and he’s the match with my name on it. Reverent in his destruction. Gentle in the way a predator is before it bites.

My skin tingles, it burns where his hand touches me. There’s not a breath of space between us. His muscular torso is pressed against my back, and he’s towering over me. I can feel the warmth, that sinful hotness of his breath fanning the shell of my ear, undoing me slowly with passing seconds. I sense my hands trembling, my heart palpitating and worse, my thighs clench.

Each touch branded into memory, bringing back memory into marrow. As if my body was built to house his madness.

And my silence, a shrine he kneels at.

I tell myself I’m okay. That if I close my eyes long enough, I’ll wake up somewhere else.

But the weight doesn’t lift. Breathes with me.

There are nights you can hear your thoughts. And then… there are nights you pray they stay quiet. Because if they speak, they’ll whisper his name.

Massimo Bianchi.

Bane of my existence.

The devil god forgot to chain.

A wound that scabs just enough to be torn open again.

The kind of man who doesn’t knock the air out of your lungs, he teaches you to love the suffocation. The kind who leaves fingerprints on your soul, not your skin, and still, you feel them burn.

He walks like regret, slow, certain, dressed in leathered sin.  Speaks in silken commands that sound like choices. Claims like a guillotine.

And me? I was a locked door.

He was the fire that melted the hinges just to walk through.

Massimo doesn’t haunt. He possesses. And every time I breathe, it’s like inhaling him all over again. And again, till I forget what oxygen tastes like.

My body stills, rigid as rock in his arms. The air between us isn’t air at all, it’s just heat. My skin burns everywhere he doesn’t touch me, and he’s touching everywhere.

His breath ghosts along the side of my neck, as if he owns the goddamn right to taste me whenever he pleases.

The windows rattle. A low, trembling groan that slinks through the room. The kind of sound that makes your spine curl in instinct, not fear. The wind lashes against the panes now, like it too wants in. Like it too wants to watch.

It wasn’t like this before.

The moon was bright the last time I checked. But now, it’s gone. Buried behind clouds so thick they look bruised. As if the night itself decided to turn its face away, ashamed of what it sees inside this room.

My room. My sanctuary. The one place untouched by him. Until now.

Now the air smells of him. Smoke, leather and sin. 

I see the curtains sway from corner of my eyes. The lamp on my nightstand flickers once, twice, then dies.

And all that’s left is him.

All-consuming.

All over me.

His fingers trail along my bare arm, lazy, taunting. As if I’m his to taste, his to burn, his to brand.

“Cold night, huh?” he murmurs, his lips grazing my skin, his presence swallowing me whole.

But I’m not cold. I’m burning. From the inside out. A fever in the shape of his name.

Outside, the wind howls like it knows. Inside, I don't move. Because even if I ran, he’d still be everywhere.

And some storms? They don't pass. They stay. They settle. And call themselves home.

Massimo Bianchi is the storm that built his house in my bones.

And God help me…I don’t know what to do anymore.

“What are you doing here?” I find my voice somewhere in the back of my throat, I’m surprised I can even talk, when I should be rattled to my bones.

Massimo hears the panic behind my unbothered tone. But his hands are still on me, exploring, looking for something. I don’t know if I should be pissed or terrified at the sheer audacity of him to come here after the stunt he pulled at party.

I don’t know how he managed to bypass the guards, the security system and my brother’s study that was just three doors away. To be honest, I don’t want to know. Cause if I expect anything from him, it’d be his stalker-ish tendencies, and that arrogant filthy mouth.

Though, my heart is still pounding loudly. It doesn’t know rest.

When he doesn’t say anything and just runs his nose along the length of my neck, I turn in his arms, and put my hands on his chest to push him away.

“After everything you did, now you broke into my room?”

To my surprise, he let me push him away, but the impact have me stumble back and he’s still standing there. Looking as smug as I remember, wearing the same clothes he wore at the party. That damned suit except the coat and the tie. The buttons of his shirt are opened giving me very nice view of his chiselled chest and a dainty pendant dangling from his thick veiny neck.

It does things to me, scratches a part of brain as I notice the strong, veiny arms wrapped around me just a moment ago. The sleeves are rolled to his elbow and the white on his skin complimented his darkness.

He’s tall, and muscular, and broad and extremely handsome and a pervert.

I narrow my eyes as he chuckles as if he knows what goes on in my head. Tilting his head to side, he bites his lips looking at my face. “I texted. You didn’t answer. That’s rude, bambina.”

I take a step back. “And breaking into someone’s house isn’t?”

He takes a step forward. And before I know, he presses closer, his pelvis flush against my lower abdomen and I feel him.

He’s hard.

“Wearing this to bed is,” his tone drops, turns deeper and darker. “Little silk shorts riding up that ass,” his hands circle to cup my behind as he pulls me up, till I’m on my toes and he’s grinding against me. One hand comes up to cup my breast over the tank top as he kneads it roughly. “No bra. You have no shame, bambina. You really didn’t think I’d come?” he grinds forward and my hands find his shoulder barely clinging onto him as I suppress myself from reacting. “Or were you hoping I would?”

“Get off me, you sick bastard!” I hiss, struggling and kicking back at him.

His hands grabs my wrist mid-swing and pins it behind my back, my chest pushes forward and his eyes drop.

“Careful, bambina. Keep cursing and I’ll start thinking you want to be fucked with your mouth open.”

“You’re insane.”

“For you? Yes.” He presses his lips to my jaw, biting and dragging teeth along skin. I jerk away, breathing hard, furious and flustered all at once.

“You think this is a game?” I whimpered. “You think you can break into my room, touch me, and scare the hell out of me and what? I’ll just melt for you like every other girl you’ve slept with?”

His eyes flicker, and for the first time, I see something sharp and unreadable flash through greys and blues.

He steps back, enough to let me breathe, but close enough to block me from swinging at him.

“No, bambina,” he murmurs. “You’re not them. And that’s the problem.”

I glare up at him, defiant despite the pounding of my heart, despite the heat pooling low in my stomach from his closeness. “Then what am I, huh? Some new toy? Something for your ego to conquer?”

He leans in, his breath warm and sinful against my lips but not touching. “You’re my muse.”

I scoff, feeling all emotions at once. His muse? What does that even mean? I was not is painting. I was not his poem. Not a tragic masterpiece he could destroy and claim it to be beautiful.

My fists curl at my sides and I shake my head. “Your words don’t match your actions. You think this is some… joke? Threatening me and then calling me your muse?”

His eyes don’t lose that darkness and the shadows play tricks on my mind as he steps closer. “You forgot grinding on you. That part seemed to get your heart racing the most.”

“You’re sick,” I whisper. My voice cracks. “You made that girl kill herself, don’t you? You forced her into something and then dumped the blame on Judas. And now, now everyone thinks he’s a murderer.”

A flicker of something crosses in his eyes. But it disappears just as fast as it came.

‘You knew what would happen,” I push and my body shakes. “You knew how much it would destroy my family’s reputation. And me. And yet you did it anyway. Why?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he walked toward me again and I step back until my thighs hit the edge of the bed.

“You’re fucking insane.”

He leans in. “And you were fucking obsessed with me.”

I slap him.

It is instinctively. That’s what I tell myself. As I watch his face turning. My palm burns and my eyes widen as he looks back at me, he’s smiling.

“Touch my face again,” he rasps. “And I swear I’ll make you feel it between your legs.”

I move to slap him again, because I don’t know what to do. Because anger is easier than fear. Because defiance is only armour I’ve left. B

But he catches my wrist mid-air and twists, dragging me forward into him. I stumble into his chest. Breath knocked out of me. The world narrowing to the sound of my gasp and the pounding in my ears. His heartbeat drums like war under my palm.

"You're mad at me, right?" He growls. “Then we’ll settle this like adults.”

And before I can form a response, his grip shifts. He spins, wraps his arm around my torso and picks me throwing me down onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath my weight. The room stills.

The wind rattles the windows again. Shadows slither along the walls. And him… he’s standing at the edge of the bed like a storm deciding where to strike.

My body coils tight. My breath is shallow. There’s a twist in my stomach, a terrifying, addictive ache that blooms low and deep.

“You framed my brother…” I mutter as I watch him towering over me, gripping my wrists and flips me under him, forcing my back against the mattress as he straddles me.

“No more running,” his voice dips. “And no more fighting.”

His fingers graze the hem of my top and slides it up, baring my stomach.

“But you killed someone! You ruined…”

“I said,” he interrupts. “I don’t want you mad at me.”

He leans down, kisses trailing fire along my collarbone as his hands yank my tank top up and over my head, tossing it aside like it offended him.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“By assaulting me?” I whisper, even as my thighs press together with aching anticipation.

His mouth brushes my ear. “You’re not saying no, bambina. You’re just saying it wrong.”

He dips lower, hips lips sealing around one of my nipples, biting and making me jolt and gasp. His hand slides down, yanking my shorts and panties off in one swift.

“You want answers?” he murmurs. “Then take them like a big girl.”

He parts my thighs with his knees and slides two fingers along my slick folds, groaning like he’s the one being tortured.

“This,” he growls. “Doesn’t lie. You’re mad. Sacred. But you’re soaking wet for me.”

I turn my head, burning in shame and something hotter.

“Fuck you,” I whisper.

He kisses my throat, his free hand cupping my jaw and force me to look at him.

“Oh, you will.”

And before I can throw another insult, he slides his fingers into me with one slow, punishing thrust, filling me so deeply I forget how to breathe.

“I’ll fuck the anger right out of you,” he snarls against my neck. “And then maybe, you’ll stop pretending I don’t rule your thoughts.”