The Mafia King's Runaway Genius Wife

Isabella POV

The heavy oak doors of the master suite slammed against the walls with a deafening crack. I flinched, clutching my right side as Damien stormed into the room. He looked like a demon dragged straight from hell, his dark eyes burning with a lethal, unhinged fury that demanded blood.

I hadn't touched the massive king-sized bed. Instead, I had dragged a spare duvet and two pillows onto the cold, dark hardwood floor near the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was a pathetic fortress, but it was mine.

He stopped, his chest heaving beneath his tailored waistcoat as he took in the sight of me huddled on the floor. The glittering skyline of New York behind him offered no warmth.

"Get in the bed, Isabella." The Don's command. Low, vibrating with absolute authority.

"No." The word tore from my throat, trembling from the stabbing pain in my gut, but my gaze remained locked on his. "Your mother locked the guest wing, but I will never share a bed with you again."

He kicked the pillow near my feet, sending it flying across the room. "You are my wife. You will sleep where I tell you to sleep."

"I am your hostage, Damien," I spat, the venom in my voice masking my physical agony. "Not your wife."

The word snapped the last thread of his control. In a blur of motion, he closed the distance and clamped his hand around my upper arm. He hauled me to my feet with terrifying ease. A sharp cry escaped my lips as the sudden, violent movement sent a blinding spike of pain through my abdomen.

He froze.

His gaze dropped to where his large fingers were wrapped around my arm. Against my pale, parchment-like skin, ugly red marks were already blooming. For a fraction of a second, something akin to disgust flashed in his obsidian eyes—a fleeting horror at his own loss of control. He released me abruptly, as if my skin had burned him.

He masked the hesitation instantly with a cruel sneer. "Then rot on the floor."

He turned on his heel and stalked into the en-suite bathroom. The heavy glass door slammed shut, followed seconds later by the roar of the shower.

I collapsed back onto my makeshift bed, curling into a tight ball. The pain in my gut was a relentless, gnawing beast, sharper than it had been at The Plaza. The cold seeping from the floorboards made my teeth chatter—a pathetic, clicking sound I couldn't suppress in the dead silence of the room.

The water stopped. Damien emerged, a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping from his dark hair. He stopped at the edge of the rug, his jaw clenching as he listened to my uncontrollable shivering. It wasn't pity in his eyes; it was the deep irritation of a king whose property was malfunctioning. He could not tolerate disorder in his domain.

Without a word, he crossed the room.

Before I could scramble away, his arms slid under my knees and behind my back.

"Don't touch me," I gasped, weakly pushing against his solid chest.

He ignored my resistance completely, carrying me like a broken doll and tossing me onto the center of the massive mattress. He threw the heavy Egyptian cotton duvet over my shivering frame, trapping me in the suffocating scent of his cedarwood cologne.

I immediately scrambled to the absolute edge of the mattress, turning my back to him. The bed dipped as he lay down on the opposite side, facing the other way. We were in the same bed, but an ocean of silent, cold space stretched between us. I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching my burning abdomen, dreading the morning light.