CAGED LUXURY

Chapter Two: Caged Luxury

Morning crept into the room slowly, golden light slipping between blackout curtains that Marco had never bothered to close all the way. Elena woke tangled in sheets, her thighs still sore, her lips bruised, and her heart pounding with something that felt too close to addiction.

She turned her head to the other side of the bed.

Empty.

But still warm.

Marco had been here, then left. He always moved like that—in silence, in shadows, without asking permission or giving explanation.

Elena sat up and winced slightly. Her entire body was marked. Not just bruises—bite marks, fingernail scratches, deep aching muscles. Evidence of his obsession. His ownership.

Last night hadn’t been just sex. It had been a vow sealed in flesh. He’d whispered words between thrusts, promises and threats tangled together like silk and rope:

“You’re mine.”

“If you leave, I’ll find you.”

“Every man who even looks at you will die.”

She hadn’t known if she wanted to cry or come harder.

Now, wrapped in one of his silk shirts, Elena padded barefoot down the hall of the penthouse. The marble floors were cold. The silence was loud. The entire place was luxury bordering on obscene—glass, chrome, velvet, and gunmetal.

A cage made of wealth.

She reached the sun-drenched terrace where Marco stood shirtless, sipping espresso and reading the morning paper like he wasn’t the reason she couldn’t walk straight.

“Good morning, wife,” he said without turning.

Elena crossed her arms. “You left before I woke.”

“I had to check on some business.”

Mafia business. That’s what he meant. She didn’t ask. She never did.

He turned, finally, and his eyes trailed over her like she was still naked. “You look good in my shirt.”

“You look like a liar,” she snapped.

His brow rose. “How so?”

“You said you’d give me space. Freedom. But you lock me in this place like I’m some fucking porcelain doll.”

Marco walked toward her slowly, setting his cup down with eerie calm. “Space doesn’t mean abandonment. Freedom doesn’t mean danger. And you, Elena, are not a doll. You’re a queen in a lion’s den. And queens don’t walk the streets alone.”

“I’m not afraid of your world,” she whispered.

Marco grabbed her chin gently, tilting her face up. “But I am.”

The softness in his voice almost broke her.

Then he kissed her—soft at first, then harder, devouring. His hands slid up her thighs, lifting her onto the marble table behind them. She gasped as the cool stone met her skin, and he smirked, spreading her legs with forceful ease.

“You think this is a cage?” he growled, sliding the silk shirt off her shoulders. “It’s not. It’s a throne.”

He sank to his knees before her like a sinner at the altar. And when his mouth found her—hot, hungry, relentless—she forgot every reason she had for being angry.

Pleasure blurred her vision. His tongue was merciless, his fingers precise. She moaned, arching against him, clutching his hair like a lifeline.

And when she came—screaming his name into the morning sun—Marco stood, mouth glistening, and kissed her lips.

“Next time you think about running,” he said darkly, “remember how I make you fall apart.”

Elena stared at him, heart racing, the city stretching out below them.

She wasn’t in a cage.

She was in a fire—and Marco was the one holding the match.

[End of Chapter Two]

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