Obsessed: The Mafia's Stolen Bride

Catalina's POV

Rain hit my face like bullets, each drop screaming the same truth: I'd failed. Again.

My lungs were on fire, my legs felt like they'd been poured full of lead. This goddamn jungle (mud, thorns, vines) turned every step into torture. I couldn't tell what was streaming down my face anymore: rain, sweat, or blood. One full year in captivity, and I still hadn't given up trying to escape.

"Let go of me! LET GO!"

I thrashed like a wild animal, but the mercenaries' grip was iron. My nails raked bloody trails down their forearms; they didn't even flinch.

"Ms. Santos," one of them drawled in a thick Russian accent, "don't waste your energy. Boss is pissed."

Boss.

Dimitri Volkov.

The man who razed my family to ash a year ago and dragged me into this beautiful hell. The boy who once held my hand under cherry blossoms was now my nightmare.

The villa lights finally cut through the downpour. And there he stood.

Dimitri waited under the covered porch, white dress shirt soaked and clinging to him, sleeves rolled up to expose corded forearms. A year had only made him harder, colder. Those deep blue eyes glinted with something lethal.

He watched them haul me in, jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grind.

"Fourth time," he said, voice low and deadly.

They shoved me forward. I landed on my knees in front of him, drenched in mud and rain, looking like something the jungle spat out. Water dripped from my hair, pooling at his polished shoes.

"You still owe me," he murmured, stepping close, fingers clamping under my chin and forcing my head up. "Who the hell gave you permission to run?"

"I don't owe you SHIT!" I snarled, shoving to my feet so I could glare straight into his eyes. "YOU destroyed my family!"

His gaze turned arctic. He seized my wrist in a bruising grip.

"Then let me remind you exactly what you owe."

Before I could scream, he started dragging me inside. I kicked, clawed, twisted, anything, but he was unstoppable.

"Let me go! You have no RIGHT!"

He didn't even blink. Just yanked me through the villa and straight into the master bathroom.

The door slammed like a gunshot.

He released my wrist. I stumbled back against the marble wall, chest heaving, eyes locked on him.

"You're covered in filth," he said, voice flat. "Clean up."

"I'm not your damn dog!" I pressed harder against the cold stone. "You don't get to order me around!"

He gave a dark chuckle and started unbuttoning his shirt, slow and deliberate. The wet fabric peeled away, revealing sculpted muscle and old scars that made my stomach flip.

"You can strip yourself," he said, tossing the shirt aside, "or I do it for you. Choose."

Humiliation burned hotter than the rain ever had.

"You bastard!" I hurled the nearest thing (a heavy soap bottle) at his head.

He sidestepped without effort. Glass exploded against the wall.

"Still got that temper." He advanced, stalking me. "Funny. You weren't like this when we were kids."

"That was BEFORE you turned into a cold-blooded murderer!"

Something savage flashed across his face. In a heartbeat he pinned me to the wall, body crushing mine, heat rolling off him in waves.

"Murderer?" His breath fanned my face, mint and smoke. "And what was your father? A saint?"

"Shut your mouth!" I tried to shove him; his arms didn't budge.

"He betrayed my family. Got my parents killed." His free hand gripped my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. "And you, princess of the Santos bloodline, get to pay the price."

We were so close I could see the storm raging behind the blue.

"That wasn't ME!" I bucked against him, which only pressed us tighter together. "I was in college, I didn't—"

"But it's in your veins." His thumb traced my cheek, mocking and cruel. "Traitor's blood."

Rage took over. I drove my knee up toward his groin. He blocked with his thigh, slamming me harder against the wall.

Next thing I knew, my soaked shirt was in shreds on the floor. His mouth clamped on my neck, teeth sinking in hard enough to draw blood.

"No—" I sobbed, shoving at his chest, but he caught both my wrists in one hand and wrenched them behind my back.

He forced my legs apart with his knee. I felt him (hot, rigid, merciless) nudging my entrance, and then he drove in to the hilt with one brutal thrust.

The scream tore out of me, muffled against his palm. Pain and shock bowed my spine.

"Cry louder," he growled against my ear, hips snapping forward, each thrust punishing and deep, slick sounds echoing off marble. "The more you cry, the harder I fuck you."

I fought like a cornered animal, nails carving red lines down his arms, but every struggle only made him meaner, rougher, driving into me like he wanted to split me apart.

When the orgasm ripped through me against my will, I shattered, tears flooding, body shaking. He followed right after, spilling hot inside me with a guttural sound, triggering another helpless spasm.

He pulled out. My legs gave way; I slid down the wall into a broken heap, sobbing so hard I couldn't breathe.

Dimitri crouched, gripped my chin, thumb swiping the tears from my lip. His voice was pure ice.

"You can't run from me, Catalina."