Chapter 10: Public Marking
The dress was a calculated rebellion, a whisper of silk and intention. Bella stood before the mirror in her Monte Carlo apartment, twisting to see the drape of emerald fabric. It fell in a graceful column from her hips, but the back—the back plunged in a deep V that ended just above the curve of her lower spine. There, in the soft light, the fading fingerprints from three nights ago were just visible, a shadowed map of possession against her skin. She traced them with her own fingertips, a shiver that had nothing to do with the air conditioning skating down her neck.
She smiled, a small, private thing. This was for him. A silent answer to his growled claim in the garage. A reminder, just for them, in a room full of hundreds.
The gala was a shimmer of sponsors and champagne, a mandatory pageant of wealth and speed. Bella moved through it like she owned the air around her, exchanging effortless pleasantries with team principals, laughing at bland jokes from marketing directors. She could feel the weight of his gaze from across the room, a tangible heat between her shoulder blades.
She was debating the merits of a new simulator software with a Red Bull engineer when a familiar, melodic voice cut in.
“Bella, you look… incredible. That color is something else.”
Charles Leclerc stood beside her, his smile charming and easy. He leaned in to kiss her cheek in greeting, his eyes inadvertently dipping to the exposed line of her back. They lingered for a half-second too long, a natural, human reaction to a beautiful, unexpected sight.
It was all the provocation required.
Fernando was there before she could even form a reply. He didn’t shove Charles. He simply materialized, his presence an immovable object, his hand settling on the small of Bella’s back, his thumb pressing directly onto the lingering marks.
“Charles,” Fernando said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her spine. “Trying to steal my good luck charm?”
Charles blinked, taking a half-step back, his diplomat’s smile still in place but his eyes suddenly wary. “Just paying a compliment, Fernando. No theft intended.”
“Good.” Fernando’s thumb stroked once, a deliberate caress over the bruises. “Because she is not available.”
The tension was a live wire. Bella leaned back into his touch, a subtle arch of her spine, feeling the possessive fury radiating from him. She gave Charles an apologetic shrug, her eyes sparkling with something that wasn’t apology at all. “You know how he is about his assets, Charles. Terribly protective.”
Charles wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away with a laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know, I know. Enjoy the party.”
As Charles melted into the crowd, Fernando’s hand slid up her bare back, his fingers splaying over her vertebrae. He bent his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “This dress is a war declaration, Belladita.”
“Is it working?” she murmured, tilting her head to give him better access.
His answer was a low growl that dissolved into the buzz of the party. He guided her, his grip firm, away from the main floor, through a service door marked ‘Private’, and into a dim, quiet hallway lined with industrial shelving.
He pressed her against the cool concrete wall, his body caging hers. The scent of his cologne and raw, unchecked want enveloped her. “You wore this to drive me mad,” he accused, his mouth hot on her throat.
“Yes,” she breathed, her hands finding his hair.
“You let him look.”
“I let everyone look.” She gasped as his teeth scraped her collarbone. “But only you know what you’re seeing.”
He made a sound of pure frustration and need. His mouth trailed up the line of her shoulder, to the sensitive junction of her neck. He paused there, his breath hitching. Then he bit down.
It wasn’t a love bite. It was a claiming, sharp and deep, his teeth breaking the skin. Bella cried out, a sharp, stifled sound of pain and ecstasy, her nails digging into his scalp. He held the pressure for a long, pulsing moment before soothing the sting with his tongue, lapping at the small, inevitable wound.
“Now they all know,” he whispered harshly against her damp skin. “They can look all they want. They will see that, too.”
Her head fell back against the wall. The pain spiraled into a blinding, white-hot pleasure, centering her completely. “Yes.”
He kissed her then, hard and consuming, his taste mixed with the faint, metallic trace of her own blood. When they broke apart, both were breathing raggedly. He rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. The public persona was completely gone, stripped away to reveal the raw, unguarded man beneath—territorial, yes, but also desperate, anchored only to her.
“The things you make me do,” he muttered, his voice thick.
“You love it,” she whispered back, tracing the line of his jaw.
He didn’t deny it. He never did.
Later, in the back of the darkened car returning to his apartment, she rested her head on his shoulder. The new mark on her neck throbbed in time with her heartbeat, a fresh brand. He held her hand, his thumb rubbing circles on her palm.
“Lando texted me,” she said softly into the quiet hum of the engine.
His body went rigid beside her. “What did he say?”
“Just ‘Sorry about today. Won’t happen again.’” She felt the tension in his arm, the coiling readiness for another fight. “I didn’t reply.”
“Good.”
“You scared them,” she stated, not a question.
“They needed to be scared.” He looked out the window at the passing lights of Monaco, his reflection grim. “They are children playing in a world they do not understand. They think everything is a game. Gossip is a game. This,” he brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles, “is not a game.”
She knew what he wasn’t saying. That his fury was a fortress built around her. That the loneliness of his life before her had made him ferocious in its defense. The incident with Lando and George wasn’t about jealousy; it was about a fundamental violation of the only sacred space he had.
“I’m not fragile, Nando,” she said, using the private name rarely spoken aloud.
He turned his head to look at her, his eyes dark pools in the dim light. “I know you are not fragile. You are the strongest person I know. That is why this—why you—are worth any war.” He let out a long, slow breath. “But I will not have you whispered about. I will not have you looked at with pity or confusion. They will look at you with respect, or they will not look at all.”
The car slid to a stop. He helped her out, his hand a steadying force on her elbow. In the elevator, he pulled her close, his nose buried in her hair, inhaling deeply as if memorizing her scent.
“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, his fingertips ghosting over the bite on her shoulder.
“A little,” she admitted. “I’ll feel it tomorrow.”
A satisfied, primal smirk touched his lips. “Good.”
The apartment was dark and silent, overlooking the sleeping harbor. He didn’t turn on the lights. He simply led her to the bedroom, his movements deliberate. He undressed her with a reverent slowness, his hands exploring every inch of her as if for the first time. The silk dress pooled on the floor like a shed skin.
There was no frantic haste tonight. This was a reconsecration. His mouth worshipped every bruise, every mark, old and new. He mapped her with a tenderness that made her chest ache. When he finally slipped inside her, it was with a slow, deep intensity that felt less like sex and more like a vow, sealed in the dark.
Afterwards, tangled in the sheets, sated and heavy, she lay listening to the steady beat of his heart. His fingers were threaded in her hair.
“I meant what I said,” she whispered into the quiet. “I am proud of you. For the race. For today. For all of it.”
He didn’t speak for a long time. Just when she thought he’d fallen asleep, his arms tightened around her.
“You are the only one,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and emotion. “The only one who ever has been.”
As sleep pulled her under, the last thing she felt was his lips, soft as a sigh, against the new mark on her shoulder—a silent apology and a promise, all in one. Outside, the first pale light of dawn began to bleed into the Monaco sky, but in their fortress of sheets and skin, the night, and its truths, held firm a little while longer.