The fire crackles low, casting dancing shadows across the library walls. My question hangs in the air between us, fragile as spun glass.
"And I... only have to choose one?"
Matteo laughs softly, the sound rich and dark as aged wine. He steps closer, amber eyes gleaming in the firelight, that familiar predatory smile curving his lips.
"Eager already, piccola?" He tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin flush. "I have to say, I wasn't expecting enthusiasm. Not after everything you've been through."
"I'm not eager," I manage, though my voice comes out breathless. "I'm trying to understand the rules of your game."
"It's not a game." Santo's voice is quiet behind me, closer than I realized. "Not to us."
Matteo's smile sharpens. "But before you choose, you need to know what you're choosing between. It's only fair, don't you think? You wouldn't buy a dress without trying it on first."
"I'm not a dress."
"No." He reaches me, and my breath catches as his fingers find the thin strap of my nightgown. "You're far more valuable than any piece of fabric."
He eases the strap down my shoulder, the silk whispering against my skin like a secret. My heart pounds so loud I'm certain they can all hear it.
"Consider this," Matteo murmurs, his mouth finding the curve of my neck, "an introduction."
His teeth graze my pulse point, and I gasp. His hand cups my breast through the silk, thumb circling my nipple with devastating precision until it peaks against his palm.
The sensation shoots straight through me, electric and overwhelming.
"Tell me how that feels," he breathes against my throat. "Tell me you don't want more."
Before I can answer, warmth spreads across my back. Santo. His calloused hands span my waist, solid and grounding even as everything else spins out of control.
"We won't do anything you don't want." His voice is rough velvet against my ear, so different from Matteo's silk and venom. "Tell us to stop, and we stop. That's a promise, Gianna. Not a game. Not a trick."
His hands slide lower, gathering the hem of my nightgown, the fabric rising inch by torturous inch. Cool air kisses my thighs.
"Do you want us to stop?" Santo asks, and there's a genuine question in his voice. Genuine care.
I should say yes. I should push them away, demand answers, maintain some shred of the dignity I've been clinging to since the auction.
But my body has already answered for me, arching into Matteo's touch, pressing back against Santo's solid warmth.
"No," I whisper. "Don't stop."
Matteo captures my mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing whatever else I might have said.
He kisses like he does everything else—with complete focus, absolute possession. His tongue slides against mine, tasting, claiming, and I melt into it despite every instinct screaming that this is dangerous.
Behind me, Santo's fingers trail up my bare thigh, achingly slow, mapping the terrain of my skin like he's memorizing every inch.
When his hand finally reaches the apex of my thighs, he groans low in his throat—a sound of pure, reverent hunger.
"Cristo, Gianna." His voice breaks. "You're so wet already. So ready for us."
His fingers stroke through slick heat, exploring without pushing inside. Learning me.
The contrast between Matteo's demanding mouth and Santo's gentle exploration is maddening, overwhelming, too much and not nearly enough all at once.
I'm drowning. Burning. Lost somewhere between two bodies and six hands and pleasure building like a wave about to crest…
"Enough."
Luca's voice cuts through the haze like a blade through silk.
Both brothers freeze. Matteo's mouth lifts from mine. Santo's hand stills against my thigh. But neither of them withdraws completely—they stay pressed against me, bracketing me, hands still possessive on my body.
The eldest Moretti rises from his chair by the fire and approaches slowly, deliberately. Each footstep echoes in the sudden silence. The firelight catches the scar at his temple, the steel in his gray eyes.
He stops in front of me, and despite everything, despite Matteo's mouth still hovering near mine, despite Santo's fingers still resting against my slick heat, it's Luca who commands my complete attention.
He tips my chin up with one finger, forcing me to meet his gaze. His brothers' hands remain on my body, but their touch has gentled, waiting. Deferring to him.
"This is what we offer."
Luca says quietly, his voice like smoke and gravel. His thumb brushes my swollen lower lip, tracing the path Matteo's kiss carved.
"Pleasure beyond anything you've imagined. Three men who will worship every inch of you, fulfill every fantasy you've never dared to voice."
My breath comes in short, desperate gasps. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, between my thighs, everywhere they've touched me.
"But only when you choose," Luca continues, steel-gray eyes boring into mine. "This was a taste. A sample of what waits for you. Nothing more happens until you decide which of us you want."
He steps back. As if on cue, his brothers withdraw with him—Matteo's warmth leaving my front, Santo's solid presence disappearing from behind me.
I nearly stumble at the sudden absence, cold air rushing in to fill the spaces where their bodies were.
I'm left standing alone, nightgown askew, skin flushed, body throbbing with unfulfilled need. Gasping. Aching. Desperate for more.
"Think about it, piccola," Matteo murmurs, amber eyes raking over my disheveled state with obvious satisfaction. "Take all the time you need. But know that when you finally choose... we won't hold back."
The library doors open behind me. I don't need to turn to know it's Enzo—that quiet presence that seems to materialize exactly when needed.
"Signorina." His voice is carefully neutral, betraying nothing. "Allow me to escort you back to your room."
I follow him on unsteady legs, not trusting myself to look back at the three men I'm leaving behind. The corridors blur past—marble and shadow, candlelight and silence.
Enzo says nothing, asks nothing, just walks beside me with that patient steadiness that makes me want to scream or cry or both.
When we reach my door, he pauses.
"Sleep well, signorina," he says, and there's something almost gentle in his tone. Almost sympathetic.
I step inside. Close the door. Collapse against it and slide to the floor.
Sleep. As if that's possible now.
I lie awake until dawn, staring at the ceiling while my body burns and the ghost of six hands remains imprinted on my skin.
Every time I close my eyes, I feel them—Matteo's teeth at my throat, Santo's fingers between my thighs, Luca's thumb tracing my lips.
Three brothers. Three different kinds of hunger.
And somehow, impossibly, I want all of them.