Mated To The Mafia Werewolves

Arabella covered her face with her hands and shook her head. She dragged in a staggering breath, blinking back the tears in her eyes. What had happened just moments ago was beyond her comprehension, something she had never anticipated.

Sandro might now view her as a whore, assuming he had attained his desires. She had cried out his name as he pleasured her. It was the last thing she had intended, but in that instant, she had been unable to stop herself. The desire that had coursed through her had been overwhelming, and she had craved more.

Perhaps, she was silly to have wanted more, yet, she couldn’t help the way she felt.

Arabella bit her lower lip as her core tingled, the image of Sandro buried deep within her mind. She pondered the size of his manhood and how she might have felt if he had taken her more intimately. While it was possible she wouldn’t have consented and might have protested, she was also convinced that Sandro would have been forceful.

“Will you take the entire day to freshen up?” Sandro’s voice echoed outside the door. Arabella scrambled to her feet as he knocked.

Hurriedly entering the shower, she focused on cleansing her essential body parts before tending to the less important ones. Nonetheless, she ensured that every inch of her body received attention before exiting the bathroom.

A few minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, draped in a towel she had found in the cabinet. Her gaze swept the room, and she tiptoed toward where her dress lay. A snap reached her ears, causing her to freeze. When she turned, her eyes met Sandro’s intense gaze, causing her to bite her bottom lip involuntarily. She squatted and swiftly snatched her dress from the floor, then turned her back to him.

“Turn around,” Sandro ordered, and she complied, her grip on the towel tightening. His scrutinizing gaze made her feel exposed.

A groan escaped Sandro as his arousal intensified while he stared at her flushed face. Strands of her wet, white hair clung to her skin, accentuating her alluring appearance. He took two steps closer, stopping himself, and drew in a deep breath, trying to calm his escalating desire. The scent of her body wash wafted towards him, filling his senses with the urge to pull her closer.

His wolf stirred and whimpered, but he clenched his hands, determined to suppress it.

‘Not the time,’ he grunted through a mental link.

His wolf, Lace, had seldom awakened. For a while after assuming the mafia identity, he had believed it to be dormant, if not dead.

Until Arabella had arrived, she had rekindled Lace, making it persistently present. Yet, what truly irked him wasn’t this awakening; it was how Lace responded to Arabella’s scent whenever she drew near.Belonging © NôvelDram/a.Org.

He did not desire Arabella. He harbored no wish to be entangled with her. His only inclination was to make her pay for her father’s sins and then end her life. Nevertheless, the increasing emotions within him refused to be dismissed.

“Sandro,” Arabella mumbled, her voice barely audible. “I need to get…”

“Call me master,” Sandro growled, closing the distance between them and gripping her chin firmly. He held his mouth just inches away from hers, a dark smirk playing on his lips. “You are my slave, Arabella. As long as you remain breathing, address me as master and nothing else.”

“Master,” Arabella mumbled, her tone resigned.

Exhaustion had settled in her. She shivered from the cold, having been left with nothing to cover herself. Her longing was simple: to retrieve her clothes, wrap herself up, and seek solace on her bed while reflecting on her woeful existence. Yet, she held little hope of this happening anytime soon.

“Say it again,” Sandro urged his grip on the towel’s edge allowing him to yank it off her body. Her vulnerability seemed to heighten her allure, a fact he couldn’t deny. “You appear more captivating with each passing moment, and I find it increasingly difficult to divert my gaze.”

His large palms caressed her breasts, and he inhaled sharply, gauging her response. “Do you derive pleasure from this as well?”

“Master,” Arabella whimpered, shaking her head, her eyes downcast to her feet. Tears she had fought to hold back now welled up once more. She fought against the urge to cry, but it proved futile, especially when he reduced her to an object, a cheap pawn he had plucked from the streets.

Sandro groaned; the sight of her biting her lip was pushing him dangerously close to his breaking point. His desire was to take her, to possess her until she surrendered her consciousness. However, he was compelled to be elsewhere.

He couldn’t afford to miss the meeting; his reputation depended on it. Adhering to the code of conduct, he knew all appointments must be honored.

“I need to put on my clothes,” Arabella’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Sandro released his grip on her and headed to his wardrobe. Retrieving a box, he handed it to her.

“Put this on. I’ve chosen your attire,” he instructed, walking back to the wardrobe.

Arabella questioned, “Why are you doing this? You could just let me go…”

“Never,” Sandro snapped, his gaze intense. “If you attempt to escape, I won’t hesitate to end your life. And anyone aiding your escape will face the same fate.”

Arabella exhaled, shifting her gaze from Sandro to the box she held. She meticulously undid the ribbon and opened it, revealing an olive-green dress. She slipped into it and examined herself in the mirror. The dress was a pleated, ruffled, short skater dress with a provocative deep V-neckline. Adjusting the thin straps, she winced as they barely concealed her cleavage.

As Sandro’s presence loomed behind her, her heart raced. He grasped her waist, pressing his erection against her back.

“You’re incredibly alluring, Bella.”

“Please, just let me go,” Arabella pleaded, gripping the edge of the vanity table and closing her eyes.

“Why should I? Provide me a valid reason, and I might contemplate it.”

“I’m innocent.”

“Innocent?” Sandro scoffed. “You’re deeply flawed, Arabella. You’re burdened with your father’s Peccata(Sin).”

He pushed her, and she collided with the vanity table, causing a sharp pang in her stomach.

Suppressing a wince, Arabella whispered, “My father’s sins are not mine. I have no knowledge of all this, yet I’m suffering for it.”

“Esattamente(Exactly)!” Sandro exclaimed.

Gently gripping her white hair, he whispered into her ear, “My dearest Bella, you’re your father’s daughter, and his sins now taint you. Any child you bear will also bear this burden, as will every generation after.”

“Why?” Arabella’s voice trembled, tears tracing down her cheeks. “Why me?”

“Because your father sinned, and all subsequent generations must atone,” Sandro declared sternly.