13. Livia
Livia
The water runs freezing cold over my hands. I scrub the bar of cheap soap against my palms, digging my nails into my own skin until it turns a raw, angry pink. I am trying to wash away the phantom feeling of his dark hair wrapped around my fingers.
I stare at my reflection in the small bathroom mirror. My lips are swollen, bruised a deep, flushed red. A faint, plum-colored mark rests right above my collarbone where his teeth scraped my skin.
I close my eyes, and the shame hits me fully.
I didn't fight him. When he lifted me onto the mahogany wood, when he stepped his heavy thighs between my legs, my brain completely shut down. The titanium wall I built crumbled into dust the second his mouth crashed down on mine. I opened my legs to a monster because my body violently demanded it.
I wanted to be owned. I wanted his weight pinning me down, suffocating my doubts, stripping away my choices.
I was aching, weeping for him, begging for the obliteration of his dominance.
The friction of his hand against my core, the wet, desperate sounds leaving my mouth, I surrendered everything.
I shattered on his desk, grinding against his fingers like a starving animal.
I am a hypocrite. A weak, pathetic hypocrite.
I pull my hands out of the freezing water and grip the edges of the porcelain sink. My chest heaves. I swore I would never let a violent man dictate my body, yet I practically begged Niccolò Severato to consume me. My willpower is nothing against the feral lust he pulls out of my blood.
I grab a towel, dry my hands, and walk out of the bathroom and then find my way into my small assigned bedroom.
I freeze.
Three black velvet boxes sit perfectly aligned on the center of my mattress. Beneath them lies a slip of deep crimson silk, the fabric pooling like spilled blood against the white bedsheets.
These were not here when I left earlier.
I walk slowly toward the bed. I reach out with a shaking hand and flip open the lid of the largest velvet box.
Diamonds catch the light from the window. It is a necklace, thick and heavy, glittering with perfection. I open the second box. Diamond earrings. The third holds a delicate, diamond-encrusted bracelet.
My stomach churns. A bitter, metallic taste rises in the back of my throat.
I look at the jewels, and I don't see wealth. I don't see beauty. I see a leash.
My father used to play this exact game. He would drink his cheap whiskey, his knuckles bloodied, while my mother was curled into a sobbing ball on the hard kitchen floor.
The next afternoon, he would walk through the front door holding a cheap, gold-plated chain from a local pawn shop.
He would clasp the chain around my mother's bruised neck, a shiny apology meant to buy her silence and guarantee her compliance.
Niccolò is using a different tax bracket, but the manipulation is exactly the same.
He broke my boundaries in his office. Well, I allowed him.
He proved he could make me surrender, and now he is leaving expensive collars on my bed to reward my submission.
He wants to dress me in silk and diamonds, turning me into a pretty, compliant doll he can press against a wall whenever the urge strikes him.
Disgust burns through my veins, incinerating the lingering lust from the office.
I snap the velvet box shut. I gather the boxes in my arms, grab the crimson silk dress, and walk over to the small plastic trash can in the corner of the room. I drop them inside. The heavy velvet hits the bottom with a muffled thud.
I will not wear his bribes. I will not be bought.
I turn my back on the trash can and walk to the window.
The sky outside bruises a violent, angry purple. Heavy, charcoal-grey clouds roll low over the Boston skyline, swallowing the remaining daylight. The wind howls, rattling the windowpanes with aggressive force.
A jagged flash of lightning rips across the sky, illuminating the sprawling grounds of the estate. A second later, thunder shakes the stone foundation of the house. The vibration travels up through the floorboards, rattling my bones.
The lights overhead flicker. Once. Twice.
Then they die.
The estate plunges into blackness. The hum of the central air conditioning cuts off, leaving behind a thick silence broken only by the raging weather outside.
I pull my knees to my chest, sitting on the edge of the mattress. The rain begins to lash against the glass, a drumming that blocks out all other sound.
The noise pulls me backward. It drags me down into a dark, inescapable undertow.
I am ten years old. The rain is hitting the tin roof of our porch. Water pools in the cracks of the uneven driveway. The heavy knock on the front door echoes in my skull, loud enough to wake the dead.
I see the police officer standing in the downpour, his badge catching the amber glow of the porch light. I smell the wet asphalt. I hear my mother’s agonizing wail as the cop delivers the news of the car crash.
My chest seizes. The oxygen in my bedroom vanishes.
I scramble off the bed, my bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. The walls of the small room are closing in, shrinking, crushing my ribs. The dark is a physical weight pressing against my throat. I need space. I need air.
I fumble blindly for the door handle. I stumble out into the pitch-black hallway.
The estate feels like a tomb. There are no emergency lights on this floor.
I feel my way along the smooth wallpaper, my breathing coming in short, jagged gasps.
The panic is clawing inside my chest. I blindly navigate the corridor, desperate to find an open room, a window, anything to stop the suffocating crush of the memories.
My hands hit solid, carved wood, and from what I can feel, they are the heavy double doors of the library.
I push the brass handle down and slip inside.
The library is vast, smelling of old paper, leather bindings, and cold dust. The large bay windows let in flashes of lightning, briefly illuminating the towering bookshelves before throwing the room back into darkness.
I sink to the floor between two massive mahogany shelves. I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them tight against my chest, and bury my face in my legs.
My lungs refuse to expand. I am drowning in the memory of the rain, the flashing police lights, the terrifying realization that my survival was always tied to the violent whims of men I couldn't control. First my father. Now Niccolò. I am trapped in an endless, suffocating loop of monsters.
I shake violently. A ragged sob rips out of my throat, tearing the silence in half. I press my hands tight over my ears to block out the booming thunder, but it doesn't help. The storm is inside my head.
A soft, golden light spills across the Persian rug. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself. I expect the harsh reprimand. I expect Marta to bark at me to get back to my quarters.
"Livia."
The voice is a low, rough rumble.
I lift my head. Niccolò stands a few feet away, holding a thick, white pillar candle.
The flickering flame casts long, dancing shadows across his face.
He isn't wearing his suit jacket. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing the dark ink of his tattoos.
He looks at my face. He sees the panic, the wet tears staining my cheeks, the erratic, desperate heave of my chest. He sets the candle on a nearby side table, then lowers his towering frame to the floor. He sits on the rug right beside me, folding his long legs, bringing himself down to my level.
"Come here," he murmurs softly.
I am too far gone to fight him. The panic is blurring the lines between my hatred and my desperate need for an anchor. I uncurl my legs and practically crawl the two feet separating us.
Niccolò opens his arms and simply wraps his strong, warm arms around my shaking body and pulls me gently into his lap. He tucks my head against his chest, folding me into his heat.
"Breathe," he instructs. It is the exact word I used on him in the office, spoken with the same steady cadence.
His large hand strokes the back of my hair.
"I can't," I choke out, my fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his shirt.
"You can," he replies, his deep voice sending a soothing shockwave through my bones. "Feel my chest. Match it."
I close my eyes. I focus on the steady, powerful thud of his heart beneath his ribs. I focus on the familiar scent of bergamot, the smell of clean linen, and his muscles. He feels like a fortress.
Outside, the thunder crashes again, shaking the glass panes. I flinch, burying my face deeper into the crook of his neck.
His arms tighten around me, a shield against the dark.
"I have you," he whispers into my hair. "Nothing touches you in this house. You are safe."
And yes, I do feel safe in the hands of the monster.