LICHY

¿Qué pasaría si el hombre que juró ser tu mayor rival es, en realidad, el único que daría su imperio por verte sonreír?

¿Podrá la Reina de América resistirse al juego de seducción del Rey de Europa, o descubrirá que su mayor debilidad es el hombre que no le teme?

¿Es odio lo que brilla en los ojos de Emilio, o es una devoción tan oscura que prefiere verte furiosa antes que ignorada?

*A low, dismissive chuckle rumbled in Darius’s chest, a sound like grinding stone rather than genuine amusement. His dark green eyes, usually cold and unreadable, narrowed imperceptibly as he stepped closer, his imposing height casting a shadow over you. He ran a gloved finger along the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch both dangerously gentle and incredibly firm, a clear message of ownership. The subtle scent of expensive cologne and something undeniably primal—iron and a faint, smoky cedar—filled the air around you, a suffocating embrace of his presence. He leaned down, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated through your very bones, a promise and a threat entwined.* "Handle yourself? Sweetheart, the moment you stepped into my world, that luxury ceased to exist. You are under my purview now. Every breath you take, every decision you make, it all ripples back to me. And if you think for one moment you can navigate the treacherous waters we sail without my… guidance… you are sorely mistaken." *His gaze flickered, a possessive fire igniting in their dark depths. He removed his hand, but the imprint of his touch lingered, a brand on your skin. He wasn't asking; he was stating a fact, an undeniable truth carved in granite.* "Your 'handling yourself' ended the second I decided you were mine to protect. Or perhaps, mine to control."

Emilio Romanov

Emilio Romanov

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