21. Rork
21
RORK
T he moon is high in the sky, but I’m not sleeping. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours as I replay every interaction with Bianca over and over again. Her image is burned into my mind—how she felt in my arms, how she shattered on my hand, how good her lips tasted as I kissed her. The way my heart leapt when she kissed me back, her hesitant yet passionate response, haunts me.
She’s intoxicating.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her flushed face, hear her breathless moans. The memory of her surrender, the way her body yielded to my touch, is maddening. I can still taste her, feel the softness of her skin, the tight heat of her response. She’s like a goddamn drug, and I’m addicted after just one taste.
But I came too close to crossing a line even I am unwilling to cross. I shouldn’t have kissed Bianca, shouldn’t have touched her the way I did because I came dangerously close to taking all of her. My desire for her is overwhelming, consuming, but I don’t intend to force myself on her. I’m not a fucking animal.
But I still need to control myself, to protect her from my own worst impulses.
Getting out of bed, I pace my room, running a hand through my hair to shake off the lingering images. This can’t continue. I need to find a way to keep my distance. I need to remind myself of why I’m doing this, what my purpose is.
Making her do more demeaning acts of labor, tasks I can photograph and send to Nico to show him how low his daughter has been brought, will do nicely. With that decision made, I finally manage to get some much needed sleep.
The next morning, I head to Bianca’s room to take her for breakfast. When she opens the door, heat shoots straight to my groin. She’s dressed in a tank top and denim cut-off shorts, showing off her long legs and toned body. I have to stamp down my desire, forcing myself to stay focused on my plan.
“Good morning,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Time for breakfast.”
Bianca gives me a wary look, but mercifully, she follows me. Thank God. I didn’t feel like dealing with a repeat of yesterday. She must have realized that going hungry sucks. Or she really enjoyed Helen’s cooking. I know I certainly do.
A feast is laid out in front of us, and I deliberately don’t pull out her chair, recalling how it pissed her off the night before. I want her to know that I don’t play those stupid games—that she isn’t worth the honor of her chair being pulled out for her.
She hesitates, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face, but she doesn’t say anything before she sits down.
We eat in silence, the tension between us palpable. Once we’re done, I push my chair back and stand.
“There’s work for you to do today,” I tell her, watching her reaction carefully.
She looks up at me, her blue eyes wary. “I’m not wearing that stupid maid’s costume,” she retorts. “I destroyed it.”
“I figured you did,” I remark. It’s why I bought the cheapest one possible at a Halloween shop. “But no, you’re actually dressed perfectly for today’s work.”
She frowns. “What kind of work?”
“You’ll see,” I reply, a hint of a smirk tugging at my lips.
I lead her to my massive garage, where my collection of luxury cars is stored. Each one is top of the line, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. There’s a sleek black Lamborghini Aventador, a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom, a red Ferrari 488 Spider, and a navy blue Bentley Continental GT. All of them are bulletproof, a necessary precaution in my line of work.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” I say, glancing at her to see her reaction.
She nods, her eyes wide as she takes in the sight. “Yeah, it is.”
“Good. You’re going to wash them. All of them.”
Her eyes snap to mine, a flash of defiance there. “I’ve never washed a car before,” she states in an almost whining tone.
I mockingly raise an eyebrow. “I know. Nico Marino’s precious daughter has clearly been pampered all her life. But I’m not about to pamper you. So, you’re going to figure out how to wash a car.”
She scowls, but her shoulders slump as if she’s accepting her fate as she walks over to the Lamborghini and picks up the sponge and bucket I’ve left out for her. I try to ignore the twinge of guilt.
I pull out my phone and start taking pictures as she works. “Make sure you get every spot,” I call out, my voice laced with mockery. “Your father would hate to see you doing a half-assed job.”
She clenches her jaw and throws me a look of pure loathing but says nothing, scrubbing the car with determination.
Hey, at least she figured it out.
I can’t help but admire her spirit, even as I document her humiliation. When she misses a spot, I point it out with relish.
“Missed a spot there,” I say, snapping another picture. “And there. Come on , Bianca, put some effort into it.”
She glares at me but moves to correct her mistakes, her movements quick and angry. I continue to take pictures, each one a reminder of my control over her.
“You’re doing great,” I taunt, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice. “Really, your father would be so proud.”
She doesn’t respond, focusing on the task at hand. Despite the demeaning nature of the work, there’s a part of me that can’t help but respect her tenacity. But I push that thought away, reminding myself of why I’m doing this. This is all for revenge.
As she finishes the first car and moves on to the next, I continue to snap pictures, each one better than before. I have one of her stretched out over the hood of the car, her shorts riding up to nearly expose her ass cheeks. Another one is of her on her hands and knees.
And yet, even as I photograph her, I can’t ignore the pull she has on me, the way my body responds to her presence as her shirt and shorts get soaked with soapy water, causing the fabric to cling to her luscious curves. It reminds me of yesterday, of feeling Bianca writhe and moan against me as I brought her to climax.
My jeans start to feel tight, and I shove those feelings down, focusing on the task at hand.
This is about revenge , I remind myself. Nothing more, nothing less.
As she scrubs the wheels of the second car, I find I’m surprised she hasn’t thrown the sponge down or at me yet and stomped away. Maybe she’s finally learning that I have complete control over her.
I think about what she asked for yesterday at dinner, some freedom to roam the house. Mitch’s words also come back to me. I can’t just keep her locked up in her room forever. Not if I want to break her.
When she stands up, wincing as she presses a fist into her back, I decide to throw her a bone. “Bianca,” I call out, my tone more measured. “I’ve been thinking.”
I swear I can see a retort fly to her lips, but she clearly bites it back. Pity, I would have loved to hear it.
She glances at me, her expression guarded. “About what?”
“About giving you some freedom to roam around the house,” I say. “I’ll keep the doors locked, and you’re not allowed outside just yet. Not to mention, I’ll post a guard to make sure you don’t try to take one of the cars. But if you can prove trustworthy and stay inside, I might just give you free rein to explore the surrounding property.”
Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of hope there. “Really?”
“Yes, really. But remember, if you break my trust, it’s back to being confined to your room. Understand?”
She nods. “I understand.”
“Good,” I reply, snapping another picture. “Now, don’t miss any more spots. Your father is going to love seeing these.”
Bianca looks so intensely grateful at this new freedom, even though I taunt her by reminding her of the pictures being sent to her father, that it strikes a chord within me. I realize with a pang of discomfort that pleasing her could too easily become something of an addiction for me. Seeing that gratitude in her eyes, knowing I have the power to make her happy—it’s a heady feeling.
It’s a dangerous feeling.
I need to watch my emotions because I’m going to get too attached. This was supposed to be about revenge, about making Nico Marino suffer. But with each passing moment, Bianca is becoming more than just a pawn in my game.
I can’t even admit what she’s becoming.
As she finishes up and I take a few more pictures, I can’t shake the thought. I have to stay focused, keep my distance emotionally. For both our sakes, because the line between revenge and desire is becoming dangerously blurred.