20. Bianca
20
BIANCA
O h, God, oh, God, oh, God . I can’t believe that actually happened. I can’t believe that I not only touched myself while thinking of Rork, but that he caught me in the act. And then he… he…
I can’t even bring myself to think of the words, to acknowledge the reality of what transpired between us. The memory of his hands on my body, his fingers bringing me to heights of pleasure I’ve never known, is seared into my mind like a brand.
I bury my face in my hands, feeling the heat of my shame and embarrassment burning through my palms. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, hot and stinging as they threaten to spill down my cheeks.
How can I ever face him again? How can I look him in the eye knowing what he’s seen, what he’s done? I’m mortified, humiliated in a way that I’ve never experienced before.
I can already imagine the smug look on his face, the taunting gleam in his eye as he lords this over me. He’s going to use this moment of weakness against me, to shame and degrade me even further than he already has.
I can hear his mocking voice in my head, the way he’ll laugh and sneer as he reminds me of how I came undone from his touch. “Look at you,” he’ll say, “the proud Bianca Marino, reduced to a quivering mess by the hands of her captor.”
The thought alone is enough to make me want to curl into a ball and disappear, to sink into the mattress and never emerge again. I’ve never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so utterly stripped of my dignity and my pride.
And the worst part is… I have no one to blame but myself. I’m the one who let my guard down, who allowed my traitorous body to respond to Rork’s touch. I’m the one who betrayed everything for a fleeting moment of physical pleasure.
How can I ever forgive myself for that? How the fuck can I ever look at myself in the mirror again?
I take a shuddering breath, feeling the tears finally spill over and run down my cheeks in hot, shameful rivulets. I’m crying now, really crying, my shoulders shaking with the force of my sobs as I give in to the anguish and self-loathing that consume me.
I hate myself in this moment, hate the weakness and the want that led me to this point. I especially hate Rork for exposing that weakness.
But most of all, I hate the part of me that still craves his touch, that still yearns for the euphoria of his fingers on my skin and his lips against my own. Because even now, I can’t deny the desire that coils through my veins like poison.
A sudden realization hits me like a bolt of lightning. I’m practically naked, wearing nothing but my underwear. The memory of ripping that insulting maid’s costume plays through my mind, and I cry out as a wave of fresh embarrassment crashes over me. I quickly curl under the sheets, wishing I could disappear forever.
He’s seen all of me. Touched all of me.
Was he imagining I was my mother when he did?
If I could open the windows to fling myself out of them, I would.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, hidden away from the world and my own humiliation. It could be minutes or hours, but time seems to lose all meaning as I wallow in my misery.
Just when I think I might stay here for the rest of eternity, a knock at the door jolts me out of my self-pity. I bolt upright, my heart pounding with sudden fear as I clutch the sheets to my chest. Is it Rork? Is he coming back to force himself on me?
But then I hear his voice, muffled through the thick wood of the door. “Bianca? Are you ready for dinner?”
Dinner ? I mouth the word, the question throwing me off balance. I’m not sure how to respond, but my body does it for me. My stomach lets out a loud, insistent growl, reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything all day since I refused to eat breakfast.
Still, the thought of facing Rork after what happened between us is almost too much to bear. How the fuck am I supposed to sit across from him at a table, pretending that everything is normal while we both know that I fucked his hand?
“I’m not hungry,” I call out, hoping against hope that he’ll just go away and leave me to my misery. He already got what he wanted from me.
But of course, luck is not on my side. There’s a pause, a moment of heavy silence that seems to stretch on forever. And then Rork speaks again, his voice firm and unyielding.
“I expect you to join me for dinner, Bianca. I’ll wait outside the door until you’re ready.”
Heat spreads across my face as indignation takes root. I want to scream, to tell him to go the hell and leave me the fuck alone. But my traitorous stomach chooses that moment to let out another loud rumble, and I know that my need for food outweighs my desire to make a point.
It’s not like when I was a child and was sent to bed without dinner. I at least knew where the kitchens were, and our cook would always leave food for me. In Rork’s house, I know nothing.
With a heavy sigh, I force myself out of bed, my legs shaky and unsteady beneath me. “Just give me five minutes,” I call out. Taking a deep breath, I try to gather my courage and composure as I make my way over to the closet.
I rifle through the clothes hanging there, all brought over from my parents’ home and neatly put away. I want something that will cover me up and make me feel less exposed. I settle on a simple black dress, modest and unassuming, and slip it over my head with trembling hands.
As I smooth the fabric over my curves, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My face is pale and drawn, my eyes red-rimmed from crying. I look awful.
Well, this won’t do. I force myself to straighten my spine, to lift my chin and square my shoulders. Mama always told us to never show our true emotions, to always have a mask on, even if we’re secretly dying on the inside.
“Your thoughts and emotions can be your best friends,” she would tell us, “but they can also be your worst enemies.”
Rushing into the attached bathroom, I seize my makeup bag and quickly put on enough makeup so the dark circles are gone and I look bright-eyed. As I brush some blush over my cheeks, I take a deep breath. I refuse to let him see just how much he’s gotten to me. I’ll play his game. I’ll sit at his table and eat his food.
Satisfied with my appearance, I quickly slip on a pair of flats—he doesn’t deserve to see me in heels—and open the door to see Rork standing there. Goddammit. He looks good. Too good.
His blond hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends and falling across his forehead in a way that makes my fingers itch to brush it back. He’s dressed simply, in a button-down shirt and slacks, but the clothes fit him like a second skin, hugging the lean muscles of his body in all the right places.
I can see the edges of his chest tattoos peeking out from under the collar of his shirt, and the sight sends a wave of desire crashing through me before I can stop it. I quickly stamp down on the feeling, hating myself for the way my body still reacts to him even now.
But I can’t deny the raw, magnetic pull of his presence, the way he seems to fill the space around him with an aura of power and danger. Even the scar that slashes across his eyebrow and down his cheek only adds to his allure, giving him a rugged, untamed look that makes my pulse race and my mouth go dry.
I force myself to meet his gaze, to not let him see the effect he has on me. But Rork’s eyes are already raking over my body, taking in the simple black dress and the way it clings to my curves.
For a moment, I feel exposed, vulnerable under the weight of his stare. I should have worn a goddamn nun’s habit. But then he nods, a curt, businesslike gesture that breaks the spell.
“Follow me,” he says, his voice cool and commanding as he turns to walk down the hallway.
I bristle at his tone, at the way he doesn’t even bother to offer me his arm or escort me properly to dinner. It’s a small thing, a petty thing, but it grates on my goddamn nerves, nonetheless.
I’m used to being treated with respect and courtesy. But Rork seems determined to strip me of even that small dignity, to remind me at every turn that I’m nothing more than his prisoner, his plaything.
Fuck him.
I clench my jaw, feeling a flare of irritation and resentment burning in my chest. But I force myself to follow him, to fall into step behind him as he leads me through the twisting corridors of his mansion.
As we enter the dining room, I’m struck once again by the sheer opulence of Rork’s home. The table is set with fine China and gleaming silverware, the centerpiece an elaborate arrangement of exotic flowers that must have cost a fortune.
But my admiration for the decor is short-lived as I watch Rork stride over to his seat and sit down without so much as a glance in my direction. I’m left standing there, stunned and offended by his lack of manners.
My father, for all his faults, always made sure to pull out the chair for us girls and my mother before every meal. He insisted it was what a gentleman did, a small but meaningful gesture of respect and chivalry.
But Rork, it seems, has no such scruples. He merely snaps his fingers, and a team of servants appears, carrying trays of steaming food that smell absolutely divine.
Still, I can’t bring myself to sit down, to take my place as if nothing is wrong. I stand there, my hands clenched at my sides, as a bowl of soup is placed in front of me.
Rork, for his part, seems content to ignore me, to tuck into his meal as if I’m not even there.
Finally, I yank out my chair and plop down into it, inwardly seething at Rork. I try to focus my attentions on the soup—that is really, really fucking good, or I’m just really hungry—and ignore any ideas of drowning Rork in his own bowl of soup.
The silence stretches between us, thick and heavy with unspoken tension.
Finally, I can’t stand it any longer. I set down my silverware with a clatter, drawing his attention to me with the sudden noise.
“If I’m going to be living here with you for the rest of my life,” I say, my voice tight with barely-contained frustration, “I think I deserve a bit more freedom than this.”
Rork looks up at me, his expression unreadable. “Freedom?” he repeats, his tone mocking. “And what makes you think you’ve earned that, Princess?”
I bristle at the condescension in his voice, at the way he seems to delight in reminding me of my place. I slide my hand onto my lap and dig my nails into my palm, relishing the pain. It grounds me and forces me to keep my composure, to not rise to his bait.
“I’m not asking for much,” I say, my words measured and calm. “Just the ability to move around this house and not be locked in my room. The chance to step outside and breathe some fresh air every once in a while. I imagine my windows are locked, right?”
I already know this, but I can’t let Rork know that I’ve already tried them.
Rork’s answering smirk tells me all I need to know. Goddamn, I want to punch him in his smug face. Or kiss him senseless.
Fuck, what is wrong with me?
I let my words sink in before I play my trump card. “It’s not like I have anywhere to run, anyway. We’re in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest town or city. Where would I go, even if I could escape?”
Rork leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he considers my request. I can see the wheels turning in his head, the calculation and the cunning that never seem to leave him.
He picks up his fork, his attention once again focused solely on his meal. “I’ll consider it,” he says, his tone dismissive, as if my request is hardly worth his time.
A surge of anger and frustration washes over me, and for a moment, I’m tempted to grab my own fork and hurl it at his smug, arrogant face. But I know that would only make things worse.
I force myself to take a deep breath, to unclench my fists and pick up my own utensils again. The rest of the meal passes in awkward, tense silence, the only sounds the clink of silverware against China and the occasional rustle of fabric as we shift in our seats.
I can feel Rork’s eyes on me, watching me with that inscrutable gaze that seems to strip me bare. But I refuse to meet his stare, to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he unnerves me.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the meal is over. Rork stands up, motioning for me to follow him as he strides out of the dining room and back toward my room. Fear suddenly claws at me. Will Rork expect to claim his rights as my husband after what happened this afternoon? Will he force himself on me?
When we reach my door, Rork pauses, turning to face me with a cool, detached expression. “Good night, Bianca,” he says, his voice devoid of warmth or affection.
Relief crashes through me. He’s going to leave me alone tonight. He isn’t going to try for more.
I force myself to nod, not wanting him to see how fucking relieved I am. “Good night,” I mutter before scurrying into the room.
Rork doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t try to touch me or kiss me goodnight. Instead, he simply turns and walks away, leaving me standing there just inside my door.
The click of the lock echoes through my room as he secures me inside once again.