Owning Nicci

7. Nicci

7

NICCI

S avio leads me to the elevator, tapping a keycard to a screen and pushing the button for the parking garage floor. He doesn’t look at me when I ask where we’re going, his gaze focused on the doors in front of us. I feel a nervous tremor run through me—all of this feels strange. I feel trapped, caged, even more so than I did in the room upstairs. Something about knowing how completely I’m under his power, even when we’re out in the open like this, makes that feeling more intense.

I could run, of course. I might even get away for a little while. But he would find me. Powerful men like him, like my father and my brother, always do. It’s why I never ran before. I knew I’d be found eventually, and it would be so much worse in the end.

The doors open to a small hallway that leads out to the parking garage, and Savio swipes his keycard again, leading us out into the cool, open space. He leads me all the way to a sleek black Ferrari and walks over to the passenger’s side door, opening it.

“Get in,” he says curtly, and I obey.

Eventually, there will come a time for resistance and disobedience. Maybe even sooner than I anticipated. But not right now.

We drive through the city, the streets busy with afternoon tourists and commuters and people coming and going from their lunch breaks and meetings and appointments. Savio drives us through the busiest part, out to Chelsea, where he parks behind a large warehouse and steps out of the car, unfolding his sunglasses and tucking them into his shirt.

“Come with me,” he says calmly as he leads me to the back door.

My stomach tenses, anxiety curling through me as I follow him. I have no idea what’s in there. This could all be a trick, another trap to make me walk right into the lion’s mouth.

But there’s nothing I can do about it, except follow. If it is a trap, it’s not as if I can escape. And if I were to try, whether it’s a trap or not, all hope of getting Savio to help me will be gone.

So I follow.

The warehouse is cool and dark when we first step in, smelling of metal and lumber. Savio leads me down a long hallway, opening a door that leads into a smaller room. There are several lockers along one wall and a metal cabinet with a number of drawers.

“We’re going to start with shooting lessons,” he says, taking out a key and walking to one of the lockers. He opens it to reveal a line of guns, all neatly arranged, and he takes out two handguns and sets them on the table next to the locker before relocking it and opening one of the drawers.

Methodically, he takes out a clip, setting it next to the gun, and then he turns to me.

“After this, we’ll do some training. Self-defense and the beginnings of how to use a knife.” His lips press together thinly. “I’m trusting that you won’t try to use either of these weapons on me. If you’re thinking you can kill me and run, you should reconsider that strategy.” He motions to one of the guns. “I’ll be armed around you at all times, Nicci. Not because I think you pose any real threat to me right now,” he adds, a smirk on his lips that makes me want to slap it right off of his face, “but because even an amateur can manage to badly hurt or kill someone with a little bit of luck and some determination. If I’m unarmed, you might have a chance, but I won’t be. And I promise, even if you do manage to hit me, you’ll go down, too.”

His voice is deadly serious. There’s no question as to whether or not he means what he’s saying, and a cold shiver runs down my spine.

“Do you understand?” he asks, and I nod tightly.

“Yes, sir.” For now.

“Good.” He motions for me to join him. “We’ll start with the basics.”

He shows me how to load and unload the gun, how to change the clip, how to click the safety off and put it back on. Then he leads me through a second door, and we walk into the firing range.

“Go stand there.” He motions to one of the stalls. “I’ll be right back.”

There’s a whirring sound, and I see a target sheet drop down at the other side of the range. Savio rejoins me, and he holds out the gun. “Remember what I said,” he warns. “We’ll start with how to hold it, so don’t shoot it yet.”

I’ve never held a gun before. It feels cold and heavy in my hand, and a shudder runs down my spine. For a brief moment, I’m horrified at how it feels, and then I remember what this means.

Vengeance. Power. Blood.

Everything I need to take back my life. One of the tools to do just that is in my hand, and I can’t squander this chance.

A shiver runs down my spine again, a different one this time. I straighten my shoulders and nod. “I’m ready.”

Savio moves behind me, leaning over my side as he shifts the gun in my grip, showing me how to hold it. His larger hands over mine, moving my fingers, and then one of his hands drops to my left hip, tapping it as he starts to explain how to adjust my stance.

There’s a rush of blood through my veins, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, and for a moment, I don’t hear him. I’m suddenly, viscerally aware of how close he is: of the heat of his body behind mine, the strong, muscled lines of it, his long fingers curled around my hand and his other hand on my hip. I can smell the cedar and orange scent of his cologne, feel his breath on my ear, and I feel a sudden, unwelcome jolt of arousal.

He could bend me over right here. Pull down my leggings and fuck me—see how many times I can hit the target while he’s inside of me. The fantasy is sudden and abrupt, uncomfortably real. I try to shake it off, but the sudden slap of Savio’s hand against my hip startles me out of it.

“Pay attention, principessa ,” he snaps. “Or am I wasting my time? I thought this was what you wanted.”

“It is. I’m sorry.” I bite my lip, adjusting my stance.

“I’m sorry, sir ,” Savio snaps, and I have a different fantasy—one of turning around and burying the gun in his stomach as I pull the trigger, over and over again.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I repeat instead, shoving the thought far, far down.

“Let’s try actually shooting now,” Savio says, taking a step back. “We’ll see how you do.”

Not well, at first. The gun feels large and clunky in my hands, and I have trouble getting used to the recoil. I’m nearly hit in the face with it the first time, but after what feels like an eternity of missing, I hit the target, right in the shoulder.

Savio chuckles. “Well, that won’t kill anyone. But it would certainly hurt them.”

“Hurting them is what I’m after.” It comes out before I can stop myself, and I set the gun down, turning to look at Savio. His eyes are narrowed as he looks at me, and he walks forward, closing the distance between us as he reaches up to press a finger against my lower lip.

“You’re a bloodthirsty little thing.” His finger sweeps over the curve of my mouth. “I have half a mind to tell you to get on your knees for me now, here. But we have other things to do.”

He takes the gun out of my hand, motioning for me to follow him. Back at the locked cabinet, Savio slides the clips out of the guns, stows them away, and relocks the cabinets that they’re in. I watch as he pockets his keys, something that feels like hunger sliding through my veins.

He leads me back through the door out into the hall and further down it, into another room. This one is large and almost empty, the floor covered in thick mats, with boxing equipment at one end and a rack of weights at the other, in front of a large mirror. Savio closes the door behind him and stands in front of it, eyeing me with a look that’s something close to amusement.

“You’re skinny,” he observes. “Like you don’t eat much, but haven’t worked out in a while. So let’s see how you do.”

I narrow my eyes at him. Once again, everything about his demeanor is terse, almost clinical. All of the hot lust, the barely leashed desire that I felt in him before is gone—he’s looking at me with an appraising look in his eye that isn’t sexual in the least. He’s sizing me up, and I don’t like how it feels.

And then he starts barking orders at me like a drill sergeant, and I forget about feeling much of anything at all, except the burn in my legs and my lungs.

He pushes me hard, ordering me through drills—laps, crunches, and pushups. At one point, when I feel as if I can’t pick my body up off the mat any longer, I glare up at him, dragging in a tired breath.

“I thought you said something about learning to fight with a knife.”

Savio chuckles dryly. “That was before I figured out just how woefully underprepared for this you are. I said twenty more crunches, principessa . That was five.”

If I could shoot daggers at him with my eyes, I would. “What the hell does this have to do with tracking down the Crows? I’m not going to help you kill them with how many pushups I can do.”

The corners of Savio’s mouth twitch with amusement. “And what do you think happens when he doesn’t come quietly? When he goes after you instead of me, because you seem like the easier target? When you need to fight your way out of a situation? Weapons won’t always get you out of a tight spot, principessa . You need speed. The ability to think and move quickly. To be strong enough to fight back and quick enough to get away. A bullet or a blade won’t always be what saves you.”

He looks at me keenly as he speaks, and I have a sudden flash of curiosity. I wonder what might have happened to him, or what he might have seen, to make him say that. I know nothing about him, except that he seems to have had a fractious relationship with his brother, one that devolved to a point of hatred.

And then that curiosity flees as Savio’s expression hardens. “Are you defying me, principessa ?” he asks when I don’t immediately start the exercise again. I let out a sharp breath.

“No. I’m trying not to pass out.”

His lips press together, but he gives me a few more breaths before he barks out instructions again. It feels like a momentary reprieve, and I’m surprised that he gave me one at all.

Maybe there is a heart somewhere in his chest, buried under all that ice. But regardless, I still plan to drive a knife through it at the end.

When Savio decides that I can’t take any more of the punishing workout, he orders me up from the mat and leads me out to the car before we head back to the penthouse. He doesn’t say a word to me until we’re back in the room, when he closes the door and looks pointedly at me.

“Clothes, pet,” he says calmly, and I feel my stomach tighten.

“Of course, sir,” I murmur, even as my mind rebels against the idea of giving up my clothing again. It isn’t even really that bad, being without my clothes—it’s not as if I’m cold or being exposed to anyone that I don’t want to be, or being hurt in any way besides my pride. But it’s that pride, that feeling of vulnerability, that makes me hesitate for a split second before I start to undress, my sore muscles protesting with every movement. I can see from the look on Savio’s face that he didn’t fail to notice it.

I start to toss the sweaty clothes into a heap on the bed, but Savio’s expression stops me. I force myself to fold them into a neat pile before turning to face him again, and I watch as his gaze slides over my naked body.

There’s a flicker of that heat in his eyes again, that desire. He’s holding it back, leashing it tightly, and I wonder why. It’s not as if he can’t have me. He’s made it abundantly clear that I belong to him, to do with as he pleases. But he’s not demanding his pleasure now, and the reasoning for it is a mystery to me.

I mull it over after he leaves with the clothes, while I soak in a hot bath that leaches some of the soreness from my muscles. But I can’t find an answer—not one that satisfies me, anyway.

It goes on like this for three weeks. Every morning, I wake up to breakfast already delivered, and a little while later, Savio appears with clean clothes and orders to meet him downstairs. We train—shooting, working out, and finally practicing using a knife. Then we come back. I take off the clothes he gave me and collapse into a bath before eating lunch. Later, I have the dinner that’s brought up to me. After a week of good behavior, I convince him to buy me Epsom salts for my baths, and my afternoons turn into hot, lavender-scented soaks.

And not once, at any point during those three weeks, does he touch me. Every time I take my clothes off when we return home, I see that hunger, that heat building in his eyes. I see him start to get hard just by looking at me. The tension thickens as the days pass, that taut string that I imagined feeling when he demanded my submission that first day tightening, until I wonder if it will snap.

But it doesn’t. And I find the tension getting to me, too. I find my hands wandering in the bath as I remember that afternoon, Savio’s cock in my mouth, choking me, his hands wrapped in my hair. How used I felt, like a doll, a toy for his pleasure. It shouldn’t turn me on, but it does—and I wonder if it’s at least partially because I shouldn’t be aroused by it. As the days pass, the memory blurring into something softer and more palatable, I can feel myself getting wet and swollen every time I remember it—my fingers dipping between my folds in the bath, in bed, in moments where I drift off into the memory, before I yank my hand away and mentally reprimand myself for even considering touching myself to the thought of Savio using me.

Just into the third week, I’m surprised after I’ve finished dinner. I’ve just taken the last bite of the lamb medallions on my plate, the roasted vegetables and garlic mashed potatoes long since finished off, when the door opens, and Savio steps inside.

He’s slightly less formally dressed than he usually is when I see him. He’s still wearing suit trousers and a button-down, but his jacket is gone. “Are you finished?” he asks, glancing at my tray, and I nod.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” His gaze sweeps over me, and I feel a small flicker of pride when I see that heat darken his eyes. I’ve looked at myself naked in the mirror every day for the last three weeks—I’ve seen the subtle changes in my body already from the plentiful food and all of the exercise. I’ve always been on the thin side, no matter what, but I can see that I look stronger. And I can see that reflected in the way he looks at me, too.

I don’t want his approval. I don’t care. I remind myself of that as I wait to find out why he’s come up here to visit me, outside of our usual routine for the last few weeks. I’ve gone so long without anyone’s approval that it’s easy to forget, sometimes. To slip up.

“I’ve tracked down one of the Crows,” Savio says, and my heart leaps in my chest. “A man named Lucas Giacometti. Did you know him?”

I swallow hard, trying to think. I wasn’t introduced to very many of the Crows by name. Barca wasn’t of the mind that I needed to be on a named basis with them—jealousy, I think—and I didn’t care. I was focused on anything that would keep him happy, that would keep him working with my father, because that was the only way that I got to have a future.

A future that all came crumbling down anyway.

“I might know him by sight,” I say carefully. “But I don’t know the name.”

Savio reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. He hands it to me, and I’m once again painfully aware of the fact that I’m naked. It feels strange, having a semi-ordinary conversation like this while he’s fully clothed and I’m not.

Although there’s nothing ordinary about planning an assassination with my kidnapper.

I smooth the paper out on the surface of the desk, next to my empty dinner tray. A printed photo of a man looks up at me—probably in his mid-thirties, dark-haired, decently good-looking, wearing simple clothing and a thin gold chain around his neck, visible against his black t-shirt.

“He looks like a lot of the men who worked with Barca,” I say finally, after studying the photo for a few moments. “But I don’t recognize him specifically.”

Savio nods, taking the paper back from me. “I’m sure that he’s one of the Crows,” he says, tucking it back into his pocket. “But I wondered if he was one you knew any better than the others.” He pauses. “Any of these men might recognize you?—”

“I have a plan for that,” I blurt out, and Savio’s brows rise.

“Did you just interrupt me, principessa ?”

My chest tightens, a jolt of fear rattling my ribcage. I can’t make Savio angry, not now, not when I’m so close to finally taking the first step in my revenge. These last miserable three weeks of following his every order and running myself into the ground can’t be for nothing.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I say quickly, bristling at every word but forcing myself not to think about it.

“You have a plan,” he repeats slowly. “What is that plan?”

I feel heat creep up my neck. “Barca’s men often…wanted me. He would threaten to give me to them if I upset him. I know from whispers that I heard, occasionally, that his men hoped if they stayed on his good side, they’d get a shot at me if I ever pissed him off enough to follow through on it. They’d make bets on who might get to be the first, or talk about how they’d done something particularly well—and that it might improve their chances. So I think—” I’m once again painfully aware of how exposed I am, of how Savio can look at me and see every single thing those men once coveted. “I think I could easily convince pretty much any of them to be alone with me.”

I wait for him to mock me, to say what a high opinion I must have of myself. But instead he nods, slowly, and I see his jaw tense slightly, that dark, possessive heat that I’ve seen before filling his eyes.

“Come with me,” he says abruptly, opening the door. “It’s time for a different kind of lesson, principessa .”

My stomach tightens, and I feel myself balk. But I know better than to refuse, to even hesitate long enough for him to think that I really might be defying him.

I’ve been waiting for this. For three weeks, I’ve felt that tension build, and wondered why he didn’t touch me, when he could do so whenever he wanted. Now, as his gaze slides over me as I stand up, that same tension snaps taut between us, with the addition of an odd formality that I don’t entirely understand.

He steps out into the hall, and I follow him. He leads me down to the other door, and I have the sudden thought that in a very short amount of time, my life has narrowed down to this—to following the man who keeps me captive through a series of doors, one after another. To the firing range, to the workout room, to my bedroom, and repeating it all over again, until now…

To his bedroom.

That must be what the room we step into is. It exudes masculinity—from the bed situated in the center of a low platform frame to the dark, angular furniture and the dark green walls hung with modern art. The open door on the right side that I can see leads into a dark-tiled bathroom. The back wall of the room is wood paneling, and I notice that this room doesn’t have the view that mine does. Surprising that the guest room would have such a stunning view of the city while the master bedroom doesn’t, but it gives it an insular, cave-like feel, especially with the dark decor, that I can see being comforting in a way.

Is that what this room is to him? A haven? And if so, from what?

I swallow hard, unsure as to why he brought me in here. The answer seems obvious, and yet, considering the formal, tense distance he’s put between us, I’m surprised he would bring me to his bedroom, to this haven-like space, for sex. Why not in my room, my comfortable cell, where he can keep that wall up between us, rather than bringing me into his most private space?

And then, I watch in fascination as he presses his hand to a panel in the wall next to his bed, where a hidden door slides open.

Almost immediately, as Savio steps back and motions for me to walk in first, fascination turns to fear. What if this is a trap? I’ve had that thought before, that first day at the warehouse, and it wasn’t. I can’t help but wonder, though, looking into the dark space behind the opening in the wall, if the photo of the supposed Crow was just a means to lure me into feeling safe.

But what would I do about it if it was? So I walk forward, trying not to let him see me tremble, trying not to think about how vulnerable I am, and step into the darkness on the other side of the wall.

Immediately, lights click on at the movement, and I blink, my eyes adjusting. It only takes me a second to realize the purpose of the room—and why he brought me here—and my heart stutters in my chest in a fearful, anxious rhythm.

Behind me, as I look at the apparatus neatly arrayed throughout the room, the bed and the cabinets and cupboards, I hear Savio step into the room behind me, the door clicking shut.

“Outside, you call me ‘sir, ’” he says smoothly, his voice deep and rasping over my skin. “In here, it’s ‘master, ’ principessa . In here, you are my pet. Do you understand me? Whatever I tell you to do, you comply, or our bargain is at an end.”

My heart is thundering in my chest. I recognize a lot of what’s in the room, though I haven’t had much up-close-and-personal experience with things like this. I’ve been to a couple of Manhattan’s sex clubs with friends before, years ago, although I didn’t participate. I just watched, sipping a drink, feeling my skin get flushed and tight watching the other couples playing. I was never brave enough to try it myself, even when I knew I was aroused by the idea.

Now, it looks like that choice is going to be made for me.

Savio’s hand touches my lower back, fingertips against bare skin, and I jump, biting my lip hard to stifle a yelp. He guides me forward to something on one side of the room, next to the X-shaped cross with leather bindings hanging from it.

The apparatus that he leads me to is a tall pole bolted to the wall, with a leather collar hanging from it, and a thick mat just in front of it. Savio stops, his voice deep and authoritative as he speaks.

“Kneel,” he says smoothly. “Facing me, pet.”

I nod, swallowing hard, and I’m grateful when he doesn’t seem to expect me to speak. I sink down to my knees, grateful for the thick mat that cushions them, and I can see the ridge of his cock just in front of my eyes, straining eagerly against his fly. For all his tense formality, his body betrays his excitement, his need. It reminds me that whether Savio lets me see it or not, there is a certain power that I have over him.

I hear a clicking behind me as he adjusts something, and a moment later, I feel the wide leather of the collar wrap around my neck. He buckles it snugly, but not too tight—tight enough that I can’t really move my head, but I’m not being choked. I’m held in place, and a moment later, Savio instructs me to put my hands behind my back before fastening them with leather cuffs.

I’m bound in place, unable to move. He could do anything he likes with me now. Fear slides through me at the thought, but I feel something else, too, in spite of myself.

A warmth blossoming out from my core, liquid desire heating between my thighs. My fingers curl against my palms, that urge to reach between my legs jolting through me, but I can’t now even if I want to. I’m fully at Savio’s mercy.

He takes a step back, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves. Each movement is precise, methodical, but I see the heat in his eyes. I see how he’s holding himself back, how his cock twitches against his fly, eager and begging to be released. He’s pretending to be fully in control, but he’s not. I can see that he’s not.

“You remember my price,” he says calmly, as he rolls his sleeves up over his muscled forearms. “Your submission, for your revenge. I’ve found one of the Crows, as I showed you, pet. Now you’ll remind me how well you can submit. If I’m pleased, we’ll continue on.”

He reaches down, undoing his belt with a flick of his fingers, tugging his zipper down. I’d thought he might undress, that I might finally see what he looks like under those ever-present Armani suits. But this is a part of the game, I think—a reminder of the power differential between us, as I kneel here naked, and he stands in front of me fully clothed, except for his bare forearms and the long, thick cock that he slides free, wrapping his fist around it as he gives himself one long, slow stroke.

“I’m going to fuck your face, pet,” he growls, his voice lowering to a thick, lustful rasp. “And you’ll take it without begging or complaining. You’ll swallow every drop of my cum, and prove to me that you’re a good girl. That you’re mine . Is that understood?”

I nod, every part of me strung tight as I watch him step forward, his massive cock clenched in his fist. “Yes, master,” I whisper, and I see his length jerk against his palm, pre-cum beading at the tip.

“Open your mouth,” Savio instructs. “Tongue flat.”

It’s the only movement I can make. My head is held in place, the back of it pressing against the hard metal rod behind me, and my heart pounds in my chest with nerves as I obey. I part my lips, sliding my tongue out as I hold my mouth open for his pleasure, and I have no idea how I’m going to give him what he wants.

He slides the swollen head of his cock against my tongue, dragging the thick pre-cum over it, a hiss of pleasure escaping him as he strokes himself slowly. He rubs the head back and forth, letting out a slow groan as he pushes himself over the flat of my tongue, filling my mouth as he slides to the back of my throat.

“Keep your eyes on me, pet,” he instructs, his fingers wrapped around the base of his cock as he slides out and back in again, a slow, methodical stroke that has my heart beating hard. He tastes like salt and skin, the cedar scent of him enveloping me, and to my utter shame, I feel my arousal gathering between my legs, feel it soaking my folds.

I shouldn’t be turned on by this. But I am. And when Savio’s hips snap forward, thrusting his too-thick length into my mouth, my throat, I have to stifle a choked moan.

Somehow, I manage it. I don’t want him to know this is turning me on, that I can feel that pressure building between my thighs, my clit swollen, the urge to rub my thighs together almost impossible to deny. I don’t want him to know that by the third thrust, I’m dying to rub my clit, to come as explosively as I know he’s going to.

His hand reaches behind my head, wrapping in my hair as he braces the other against the wall, his cock buried in my throat now as he grinds his hips against my face. He’s fucking my mouth as if he’s between my legs, hard, sharp thrusts that keep me choking on his cock, barely able to breathe, and my eyes fill with tears, watering at the force of it. He groans, shuddering with pleasure, sliding out to the very tip before slamming into my throat again.

I can’t breathe. The awareness of my arousal fades. Everything fades except trying not to pass out, to please him—focusing on this, his hard, sharp thrusts, his cock throbbing against my tongue, my head held mercilessly in place by the collar and his hand as he fucks me relentlessly, his sounds of pleasure filling the air. He fills my mouth once more, keeping himself buried there against my lips, before he lets out a ragged groan and I feel the hot spurts of his cum shooting down my throat.

Swallow. Swallow it all. My throat tightens around him as I swallow convulsively, taking every drop, and Savio moans with a sound that’s nearly painful as he bucks and shudders against my mouth. I feel him coming undone, his entire body shaking with the force of his orgasm, and I feel that rush of power again. The knowledge that I have something he wants so badly.

He stays there for a moment as I swallow around his cock, breathing hard before he slips free, straightening. He tucks himself back in, and I see his gaze sweep over my face. He reaches out, pressing his thumb against my lower lip. “You swallowed every drop. Good girl.”

“Thank you, master.” My voice is thick, a little shaky, ragged from the rough fucking that he just gave my throat. I don’t move—I can’t—and Savio’s gaze sweeps down, resting between my thighs. I feel my face flush, knowing that I’m so wet he must be able to see it—my arousal glistening on my folds and my inner thighs.

“In time,” he says, reaching out to unbuckle my wrists, “maybe you’ll earn an orgasm, principessa . But for now, the only pleasure that matters is mine. I expect you not to touch yourself without permission from here on out. Is that understood?”

I nod. “Yes, master.” There’s no point in telling him that I haven’t had an orgasm in months, that I can’t touch myself because I’d see him, that I don’t want to give him my pleasure any more than he seems to want to allow it. He’d use all that against me, and I don’t want to give him any additional weapons.

Even if, right now, I can feel desire pulsing through me, my body tight and hot with it, aching to be filled, fucked, given some release.

The only release I need is that Crow’s blood, I tell myself. And then another, and another. I don’t need pleasure from Savio. I just need to keep him satisfied.

He looks satisfied, but I can still feel that tension in him, that shivering thread pulled tight. An answering shiver runs down my spine, and I do my best to ignore it.

I shouldn’t have enjoyed that at all. But my sexual encounters in the past have largely been powerless. I’ve rarely slept with a man because I chose him. It’s always been a mark, someone my father wanted me to seduce, someone my father wanted to entice into marrying me, someone he gave me to as a punishment. This should have made me feel the same way—bound, powerless, used—but it didn’t.

Savio wants me because he wants everything his brother ever had. He’ll use me until he’s done with me, but until then…

Until then, he won’t let me go. I’m not sure he can. And the way he came unraveled just now felt like power.

It made me feel more in control than I have in years.