Chapter Sixteen
Lily
I wake up with a jolt. The sun is already high and I have no idea how long I’ve slept. I look around the room. I am alone and let out a relieved breath. I get up and wince. I am sore all over and decide to take a bath to soothe my body.
When I glance at myself in the bathroom mirror, I let out a dismayed gasp.
My whole body is covered with hickeys and bruises.
I blush when I notice that I even have some between my thighs.
Damiano had been relentless and I think I passed out several times, only to be roused by his deft hands, tongue or hard member bringing me over the edge again and again.
He has the ability to make my body respond to him, to surrender to his touch even though my mind balks at the idea of giving in to him.
I’m unsettled from the events of last night.
Although he was vicious in his blind lust, he made sure that I was pleasured every time.
And I am also aware that he hasn’t really hurt me other than with his roughness.
I groan in confusion about my mixed feelings.
I should be broken. I should be terrified. I should be heartbroken. But all I feel is anger and a determination to get myself out of this situation. My resilience is my greatest ally and my biggest enemy. I don’t know what to think anymore in my confused state.
Suddenly a stray thought hits me.
Shit, he didn’t put on a condom. Luckily, I renewed my birth control implant last year, but I will need to get tested.
For now, I mentally shove the questions into a box and lock them away. I will have time to sort it out later. Right now, I need a bath, then I will devise an escape plan.
I lower myself into the hot bath, sighing as the warmth seeps into my bones, easing the ache.
Then my eyes fall on the ledge of the bathtub.
I pause. All my favorite skincare products line the counter, arranged in the same order I kept them at Father’s house.
The realization sends a chill down my spine, despite the heat of the water.
I don’t want to ponder what that means.
I had no idea how far Damiano was willing to go to get me. But from the little I’ve seen since, I know I’ve underestimated him and that terrifies me more than anything.
What has he done to find me? How much does he know about me…and more importantly, what does he plan to do with me now that he has me?
After I’ve soaked for what feels like hours, I climb out of the huge bathtub and wrap myself in a soft bathrobe.
I have no clothes. The dress I wore last night is shredded to bits and my backpack is nowhere to be seen.
I slip into the adjoining walk-in closet and look at the choices available.
Of course, the closet only contains Damiano’s clothes.
I drag out one of his many white shirts and put it on.
It is way too big and falls almost to my knees. That will do.
I roll up the sleeves and I am ready to face whatever fate is waiting for me.
And I have a plan. All I have to do is annoy him enough that he will tire of me and send me packing as soon as possible.
Upside of the plan is that it will be easy to push his buttons.
Downside is, I don’t know how far I can push before he decides I am not worth the bother and simply shoots me.
But hey, let’s stay positive right? A girl can try.
I have to get away from him.
First things first—try to get out of here. The bedroom door is locked. Of course it is. I jiggle the handle, try a bit of force, even check for any tools I could use to pick the lock, but it’s pointless. He is not careless.
A few minutes later, I stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows, pressing my palm against the glass.
I assess the height. God, we must be at least fifty floors up.
The drop alone makes my stomach lurch. The windows are sealed shut, not even a crack to wedge something in.
No handle, no latch, nothing but smooth, unyielding glass.
Could I break it? Maybe. Could I survive the fall? Absolutely not.
I’ve stepped back, breath shallow, brain running in circles for a plan I don’t have, when a knock at the door snaps me to attention. Before I can move, the door swings open.
I turn and find an elderly woman stepping into the room, greeting me with a cheery “Good morning, child,” as if discovering a hostage locked in a bedroom were the most ordinary thing in the world. Maybe it is. Maybe I’m not the first. I swallow hard.
Before I can decide whether to make a run for the door, she gives a subtle shake of her head, and I remember Il Demonio is probably lurking somewhere beyond it. So yes, still trapped.
“My name is Rosa, I am the cook,” she says, her tone brisk but not unfriendly. “Mr. Santaluccia requires your presence for breakfast, or rather brunch, as it’s now well past noon.”
‘Requires my presence?’ I stare at her. Is this some twisted reenactment of Pride and Prejudice now?
Mr. Darcy politely summoning Elizabeth Bennet for tea, except with a side of kidnapping and psychological warfare?
“Um, hard pass, but thank you. It is nice to meet you, though. My name is Lily.”
I tentatively smile at her. Maybe I can charm my way out of here. She frowns disapprovingly. Or maybe not.
“Mr. Santaluccia has been very adamant that you join him.”
“Well, he will survive,” I mutter and turn back to the window, dismissing the conversation.
Could I build a parachute with the bedsheets?
I hear the door click softly shut behind me, but I don’t turn. Let him wait. The Devil can stew in his upscale hell until it freezes over, I’m not granting him a damn thing.
My lip curls in a sneer. For all his terrifying presence, I resent him most for how effortlessly he knows how to make my body submit to him.
How it responds to his touch, his voice, his gaze.
I want to scream at him, to claw the smug satisfaction from his face, make him feel the powerlessness he’s forced on me.
The door opens again after a few minutes, a bit more forcefully this time. I roll my eyes. Poor Rosa having to play his majesty’s errand boy. Girl. Woman. Whatever.
I sigh. “I am sorry that you have to run back and forth, Rosa, but you can tell his royal darkness to eff off and to get over it. I won’t be gracing him with my presence.”
A deep voice makes me jump. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
I whirl around, heart pounding. There he is.
Damiano. Towering in the doorway like a storm about to break. His eyes are locked on me, burning with fury, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. But then the shock fades, and I straighten my spine. Two can play this game. I meet his glare with one of my own, defiant and unblinking.
His gaze drops, sweeping over me, and when it settles on the shirt, his shirt, draped over my body, something in him shifts. His jaw clenches, sharp enough to cut glass, and a dangerous glint flickers in his eyes like a warning spark before a fire.
Gotcha!
I don’t flinch, don’t smirk. But inside, I’m dancing a full-on petty victory jig. So, the Devil doesn’t like seeing me in his clothes? Too damn bad. From now on I’ll be raiding his closet daily. Silk, cotton, cashmere… I’ll wear it all, solely to watch that little vein twitch in his temple.
Deal with it, Mr. Darcy.
If he wants to play master of the house, he’ll have to get used to Elizabeth Bennet making herself very, very comfortable.