The Art of Control

Chapter Five: The Art of Control

Elena hadn’t touched a brush in months.

Not since the wedding. Not since she signed her name in ink—and in blood—to Marco Romano’s world. But something inside her had been stirring lately. Something restless. She couldn’t name it, but it clawed at her ribs at night and pulled at her spine each morning.

It wasn’t rebellion.

Not quite.

It was memory.

The smell of turpentine. The way a blank canvas whispered possibilities. The quiet power of creation that was hers and hers alone.

So on a quiet Tuesday morning—while Marco was off handling “family matters”—she descended to the unused guest room she had slowly begun to convert into a studio.

The windows were wide and bright. Dust danced in the sunlight. The easel was untouched, the canvas still wrapped in plastic. She tore it open like a woman starved.

She didn’t sketch. Didn’t plan. She felt.

Color spilled like emotion. Red. Black. Gold. Her brush moved as if possessed. There was no figure in the painting—only chaos and heat. Smoke and flame. Something that looked like a crown built from bone.

When she stepped back, she was panting.

It wasn’t pretty.

It was power.

Hours passed.

She didn’t hear Marco return.

Didn’t hear his footsteps behind her.

Only when she felt his presence—like heat at her back—did she turn.

He stood in the doorway, suit still on, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His eyes were locked on the painting. Unblinking. Unreadable.

“Elena,” he said, voice hoarse. “You painted this?”

She nodded, heart thudding.

He stepped closer, his gaze moving from the canvas to her paint-stained fingers. “You’ve never shown me your work.”

“You never asked,” she said, more bitterly than intended.

“I didn’t think I had to.”

She folded her arms. “It’s mine, Marco. The one thing that’s just mine.”

He looked at her then—not as a possession, but as something deeper. Something more dangerous.

“You think I don’t see you?” he said, stepping closer. “You think I don’t feel you, even when you’re not in the room?”

She swallowed hard.

He reached out, fingers brushing the red streaks across her collarbone—paint, not blood. But his touch made her shiver all the same.

“This painting,” he said quietly, “looks like war.”

“It is,” she whispered. “Between the part of me that wants to stay… and the part that wants to run.”

Marco stilled.

And then—something in him cracked.

He pulled her into his arms so fast she gasped. One hand tangled in her hair, the other gripped her waist, pulling her against his body. He was already hard.

“You don’t get to run,” he growled, kissing her throat. “You don’t get to leave me. You put your soul on that canvas—and now I know it.”

He spun her around, pressing her against the easel, paint smearing against her back.

“I love it,” he whispered darkly. “Because it’s ugly. Wild. Yours.”

His hands lifted her dress, sliding between her thighs without asking, without waiting. She was already soaked. Maybe it was the painting. Maybe it was him.

Maybe it was the fact that they weren’t so different after all.

“Marco—someone could come in—”

“No one’s allowed on this floor,” he said, his breath hot against her neck. “You think I’d let anyone see you like this? With your body covered in paint and your pussy dripping for me?”

He pushed her panties aside and slid inside her with one thrust. She cried out, clutching the edge of the easel.

Each movement was deep, punishing, and perfect.

Paint smeared on her skin, the wall, even him. Her art became part of their bodies—like sex and power and expression had no border.

“Say it,” he growled in her ear.

“What?”

“Say you’re mine.”

She hesitated.

He thrust harder. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Marco. Always.”

And when they collapsed onto the floor, limbs tangled, skin streaked in red and gold, Marco pressed a kiss to her stained fingers and whispered: