12. Bianca
12
BIANCA
I collapse onto the bed, my heart pounding and my breath coming in short, angry gasps. I know I shouldn’t have pushed Rork like that, shouldn’t have let my temper get the best of me. But after a long, sleepless night, my mind spinning with fear and anxiety, I just couldn’t help myself.
It’s like all the pent-up frustration and anger that’s been building inside me since the moment I said “I do” just came boiling over, and Rork was the unlucky—or lucky—recipient of my wrath. I could see the fury in his eyes as he dragged me back to my room, the way his jaw clenched and his hands shook with barely-contained rage.
My hand brushes my arm, and I look down to see fingerprints all over my upper arm where Rork had grabbed me. I grimace. It’s probably going to bruise.
And now, as I sit here in the suffocating silence of my room, my stomach traitorously grumbling, I know that I’m going to pay the price for my defiance. Rork looked positively livid when he locked the door behind him, and I have no doubt that he’s already plotting his revenge.
But even as a shiver of fear runs down my spine, I find that I don’t care. Let him do his worst to me. I’ll fight him every step of the way.
He’ll learn why I was always considered the spit-fire, the wild one. I will not be cowed by some two-bit thug with a grudge, no matter how much he might try to intimidate me.
Leaning back against the headboard, my eyes stay fixed on the door that separates me from my captor. I can almost feel his presence on the other side, the weight of his anger and resentment pressing against the wood like a physical force.
But I refuse to let it break me. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower in fear, of watching me crumble under the weight of his cruelty.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned growing up as the daughter of a Don, it’s that weakness is a luxury I can’t afford. And if Rork thinks he can use my youth and inexperience against me, he’s got another thing coming.
The adjoining door slams open with a bang, making me jump. Rork storms into the room, his green eyes blazing with barely-contained fury. He tosses an outfit onto the bed, the fabric landing in a heap at my feet.
“Put this on,” he commands, his voice low and dangerous. “Now.”
For a moment, I just stare at him, my heart pounding in my chest. But then, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, I sniff and stick my nose in the air, shaking my head.
“No,” I say firmly. “I won’t.”
Rork’s eyes narrow, and he takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us until we’re practically nose to nose. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, the raw power and intensity that seems to crackle in the air around him.
“Listen to me very carefully, Bianca,” he growls. “If you don’t put that outfit on yourself, I’ll put it on you. And trust me, you won’t like how I do it.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I feel a sudden rush of heat coursing through my veins. The thought of Rork undressing me, his hands on my bare skin, is both terrifying and thrilling in a way I can’t quite explain.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
Rork leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Try me,” he murmurs, his husky voice sending shivers down my spine.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Well, there goes all my bluster. I know I should be disgusted by his threat and should be recoiling in horror at the thought of him touching me. But instead, I find myself imagining what it would feel like to have his hands on me, to feel the heat of his skin against mine.
It’s a dangerous thought, one that terrifies me even as it sends a thrill of excitement through my body. Because as much as I hate Rork, as much as I want to fight him, I can’t deny the undeniable pull between us.
If Rork weren’t such a vile, despicable human being, I would be immensely attracted to him. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, with a muscular build that speaks of strength and power. And there’s something about the way he carries himself, the confident swagger in his step and the commanding tone of his voice, that sends a shiver of excitement down my spine.
Even the scar that slashes across his face, a jagged line of puckered flesh, does little to detract from his rugged good looks. If anything, it only adds to his air of danger and mystery, the sense that he’s a man who has seen and done things that most people can only imagine.
As he looms over me, his eyes dark and intense, I can feel the tension between us building. It’s like the air is crackling with energy.
I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to give in to that desire, to let Rork’s hands roam over my body, to feel the heat of his skin against mine as he claims me as his own.
It’s a thought that fills me with equal parts terror and excitement, a dangerous cocktail of emotions that threatens to overwhelm me entirely. Because as much as I hate Rork, as much as I want to resist him, I can’t deny the magnetic pull that draws me toward him like a moth to a flame.
But then I remember that he only married me to have a piece of my mother, and any desire I feel quickly melts away.
Rork must sense the turmoil raging inside me because he takes a step back, a smug smile on his mouth. “Well?” he says, his voice a low, seductive purr. “Are you going to put on the outfit, or do I have to do it for you?”
With a frustrated growl, I snatch the outfit off the bed, clutching it to my chest like a shield. “Fine,” I snap, my voice trembling slightly. “I’ll put it on. But only if you leave the room.”
Rork chuckles, the sound deep and rich and entirely too seductive for my own good. “As you wish, Princess,” he says, his eyes glinting with amusement. “But don’t take too long. I’m not a patient man.”
And with that, he turns and strolls out of the room, his every movement exuding a casual, effortless grace that makes my heart skip a beat.
As the door closes behind him, I let out a shaky breath, my knees suddenly weak and my heart pounding in my chest.
With trembling hands, I unfold the outfit Rork has chosen for me, my heart sinking as I take in the scant scraps of fabric that make up the ensemble. It’s not the frilly, elaborate gown I was expecting, the kind of dress I’ve been forced to wear to countless parties and events over the years.
No, this is something far worse. It’s a maid’s outfit, but not like any I’ve ever seen before. The dress is obscenely short, barely skimming the tops of my thighs, and the neckline plunges down to my navel, revealing far more of my cleavage than I’m comfortable with.
The fabric is flimsy and thin, the black and white pattern doing little to conceal the curves of my body. And the apron that ties around my waist is nothing more than a scrap of sheer lace, the kind of thing that might be worn by a lingerie model rather than a respectable housemaid.
My cheeks flush with shame and anger as I stare at myself in the mirror, and I can’t help but feel utter humiliation wash over me. This isn’t just an outfit. It’s a statement, a way for Rork to assert his dominance over me, to remind me that I’m nothing more than a plaything for his amusement.
And what’s worse is that I can’t deny the way my body responds to the sight of myself in this scandalous outfit. The way the fabric clings to my curves, the way the neckline exposes the swell of my breasts… it’s enough to send a shiver of unwanted desire coursing through my veins.
I close my eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath as I try to calm the racing of my heart. This isn’t me , I remind myself firmly. This isn’t who I am, or who I want to be.
I take another deep breath, squaring my shoulders as I meet my own gaze in the mirror. I may be trapped in this nightmare , I remind myself, but I am still Bianca Marino .
Still the strong, stubborn woman I’ve always been.
And if Rork thinks he can break me with this little stunt, with this display of his power over me… then he’s got another thing coming.
Because I am not some meek little mouse, to be cowed and controlled by a man like him. I am a fighter, and I will not let him win. Even if it means playing along with his twisted games, even if it means donning this ridiculous outfit and parading myself before him like some kind of trophy.
I will find a way to turn the tables on him, to use his own desire and thirst for revenge against him.
I will not be beaten. Not by him, not by anyone.