5. Lucia
5
LUCIA
T he rest of the week passes with fewer surprises.
I visit my classroom a couple of days later, the bright light of day illuminating every corner of my newly decorated room. But instead of focusing on my decorations, my mind is consumed by memories of Saverio—his strong hands gripping my waist, his hot breath on my neck as he bent me over my desk and ravished me from behind. The sensation of being filled, the sound of our moans mixing with the rustling of papers, and the creaking of the desk under us. The image is burned into my mind, making it hard to focus on anything but the fiery passion we shared in this room. It makes my heart race and my core clench, and I hope to God I forget the memory before school starts.
The obligatory ‘Come to Sunday dinner!’ text is the only thing that manages to get me out of my funk. Between spending my mornings drinking coffee at local shops and my afternoons lounging at the city pool, I’ve done nothing but fiddle with the Nexplanon stick in my arm and contemplate if Saverio is serious about cutting it out of my arm. It’s all I think about on the forty-five-minute drive to Manhattan.
“On one hand, he wouldn’t want to damage me,” I debate aloud as I take the 313 exit for Manhattan. “If he cut out my birth control, that would leave an ugly scar. Optics are important to Saverio; he’d hate for his men to whisper behind his back at his future wife’s jagged scars.”
Fear settles in my stomach despite the reassuring words I try to convince myself of. “On the other hand, Saverio always gets what he wants.” I try to be as unfeeling about this situation as possible, but there’s a lot at stake. My betrothed is a man of means. He takes what he believes belongs to him, whether or not someone else has a claim on it. I know without a doubt that if I dare to challenge him on this, he will do the same to me—claiming me as his possession, disregarding my autonomy and will.
“I could just tell him that the OBGYN can’t get me in for a few weeks,” I decide. “OBGYN offices are always busy.” But I bite my lower lip anxiously. Does Saverio know they’re always busy? Will he check in with the office himself?
“No,” I reply quickly, “he’ll trust me.” But he only trusts me because I’ve never lied to him. If I start now, is it a slippery slope to being watched 24/7 by one of his men?
A violent shudder rips through my body, causing every muscle to tense and spasm. I could blame the AC blasting through the air vents, but deep down, I know it’s something more sinister, a realization that crawls under my skin like a thousand tiny spiders.
S averio has been tracking my location for years; I am not a stranger to his brand of ownership.
As the clock struck midnight on January 1st, 2023, I found myself trapped in his bed once again. My mind screamed for me to leave, swearing that this would be my final mistake. But as Saverio’s hands kneaded my inner thighs and rubbed out the knots in my tense hips, he asked me to share my location with him.
My entire body tightened with fear. “Why?”
“Because,” he leaned down to brush his lips against my earlobe, “I want to know your every move. I want to know where you’re at at all times.” I could feel his intense gaze on me, wanting to be connected with every part of me. It was a possessive desire that both thrilled and scared me.
The nagging voice in my head reminded me that this could still be the final time I let him consume me. Giving Saverio my location didn’t mean I had to keep falling into his trap, ending up tangled in his sheets and screaming his name.
“What if I don’t want you to know where I’m at at all times?”
His fingers never ceased their relentless massaging, digging deep into the knots and tension in my body. The pressure was intense yet soothing, as if he could read my mind and knew exactly where to apply his skilled touch. Each muscle felt like a hard ball of resistance, but under his expert hands, they gradually softened and released, only to be replaced by new areas of discomfort. “I guess you don’t have to share your location with me,” he replied with a shrug.
Relief flooded my body, allowing me to relax and enjoy the massage. But it was a false reprieve.
“But if you don’t share your location with me, I’ll be forced to hold you down and put a tracker in the back of your neck.”
In a swift movement, I flipped onto my back and locked eyes with him. My glare burned with unbridled anger and frustration. “What the fuck, Sav?” I snarled through gritted teeth, ready to explode in a fit of rage.
He looked as if he were discussing the day’s weather, hardly bothered by my change in attitude. “The choice is yours, Dandelion,” he said with a hint of coldness.
T he feeling of being watched is all too familiar to me. Saverio has been my constant shadow for the past two years, following my every move. But I take comfort in knowing that my home is equipped with the best security system money can buy. Cameras and motion sensors keep constant watch over my property, ensuring that unwelcome intruders can’t get through undetected.
I wish I could say I installed all of those precautions to safeguard myself against Saverio, but there was someone before him.
This person, nameless and faceless, had stalked me for weeks on end, intruding upon my privacy and violating the sanctity of my own home. They were relentless in their pursuit, even going as far as to sneak an Airtag beneath the wheel well of my car, tracking my every move. The feeling of being constantly watched and followed was suffocating, like a cloak of fear draped over my shoulders. Then, one day, they stopped. Or maybe I just stopped noticing.
“I can’t have a third person following me around,” I decide. Though things have quieted down with the stalker who forced me to carry pepper spray and a stun gun with me wherever I go, I replaced him with Saverio. The last thing I need is one of his bodyguards following me around to school, Chick-fil-A, and the occasional trip to the gym when I feel like working out. Two stalkers are enough for a lifetime.
I resolve not to lie to Saverio about the OBGYN. Instead, I’ll ignore his calls and texts. He’s a busy man. Between his real estate development firm and the Family, I probably won’t see him for another month or two anyway. That’s plenty of time to determine if I want to bow to his demands or push back with some of my own.