19. Livia
Livia
I wake up wrapped in midnight silk.
The scent of spiced bergamot and cedar clings to my skin, a reminder of the hours prior. I blink against the morning sunlight spilling through the massive bay windows. The space beside me is empty, but the mattress still radiates warmth.
My body aches. A dull soreness sits between my thighs, but it brings a rush of heat instead of pain. The memory of his hands, his mouth, the relentless rhythm of his hips drives a flush up my neck. It was intoxicating. It was everything I never knew I craved.
And it feels like a betrayal.
I sit up, pulling the sheet to my chest. I look at my reflection in the gilded mirror across the room. I don't recognize the woman staring back at me. Her lips are swollen, her skin marked with faint purple bruises along her collarbone. She looks claimed. She looks possessed.
The little girl sitting on the top of the stairs, watching her mother bleed on the floor, screams in the back of my skull.
I swore I would never let a violent man rule my body.
I swore I would keep my autonomy intact.
I built a titanium wall around my soul, and I let Niccolò Severato smash it to pieces just because he touched my neck. I traded my independence for a climax.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. Guilt rots in my stomach. I need my armor back. I need the boundaries.
I slide off the mattress, my bare feet sinking into the plush rug. I scan the room for the torn black uniform. It lies in a crumpled heap near the foot of the bed, the white apron discarded nearby.
I pick up the ripped cotton. The buttons are gone, the fabric split down the middle. I clutch it to my chest, trying to figure out how to pin it together. If I put the uniform on, I am the maid again. I have a job. I have a role that separates me from his bed.
"What are you doing?"
I flinch, spinning around. Niccolò stands in the open archway of his massive closet. He wears tailored charcoal trousers, his chest bare, the white bandages wrapped securely around his ribs. His obsidian eyes drop to the torn dress clutched in my hands.
"I need to get dressed," I say. "I have a shift. Marta expects me downstairs."
He crosses the room. His strides are long, and purposeful. He stops inches from me, his towering frame swallowing the sunlight.
"Take it off," he commands softly.
"No. It's my uniform."
"You are not a maid," he states. He reaches out, his large fingers wrapping around the black fabric. He pulls it from my grip with effortless strength.
I watch, stunned, as he walks to the massive stone fireplace.
The embers from last night still glow a dull, angry orange.
He tosses the uniform onto the grate. He strikes a long match and drops it.
The cheap cotton catches fire instantly, flames licking up the fabric, turning my only armor into ash.
"You are mine," he says, turning back to face me. "You do not scrub floors. You do not pour coffee. You belong in this room, in that bed."
Panic clogs my throat. The smoke from the fireplace burns my nose. The cage is shrinking, the bars pressing directly against my ribs. I cannot breathe in this suite. I cannot breathe with him looking at me like he wants to consume my bones.
"I need to leave," I blurt out, stepping backward. "I need to get out of this house."
His jaw clenches. The muscle jumps beneath his skin. "You are not leaving."
"I am suffocating!" I shout, the desperation cracking my voice. "You burned my clothes. You keep me locked behind iron gates. I just need an hour. I need to see Sofia. I need to remember what the real world looks like before I lose my mind."
He stares at me, cataloging the frantic, erratic rise and fall of my chest. He reads the claustrophobia tearing me apart. He steps closer, cupping my cheek. His thumb brushes my lower lip.
"You can go to the bar," he murmurs. "But you do not go alone."
An hour later, I am wearing a pair of my own jeans and a simple sweater, sitting in the back of a bulletproof SUV. Another SUV follows closely behind us. Four armed guards flank me.
When I walk into The Neon Crow, the noise dies. The jukebox thumps, but the regulars freeze. They look at the lethal men in tailored suits standing at my shoulders, then look at me like I am a ghost.
Sofia drops a rag behind the bar. Her eyes go wide.
"Liv?" she breathes, rushing around the counter. She stops short when one of the guards steps in her path.
"It's okay," I tell the guard, pushing his arm down. I hug her. She smells like stale beer and cheap tequila. It is the scent of my old life, but it brings me zero comfort.
"Where have you been?" she whispers frantically. "The cops raided your place. Marco made a whole bunch of noise, then disappeared too."
"I can't explain," I say, pulling back. I look around the dingy bar.
The tacky floors, the unforgiving red lighting.
I used to belong here. I used to blend in.
Now, I stick out like a sore thumb, marked by the men standing behind me.
A guy in a leather jacket at the corner booth stares at me, his eyes dragging down my body with blatant, sleazy hunger.
I realize then that Niccolò was right. The real world doesn't exist for me anymore. I am marked territory.
The bell above the door chimes, and Niccolò steps inside.
He wears a bespoke midnight-blue suit. His eyes sweep the bar before locking onto me.
Then, he sees the man in the corner booth. The guy in the leather jacket is still staring at my chest, too drunk or too stupid to realize the apex predator just walked in.
He doesn't say a word. He walks across the tacky floor, grabs the man by the back of his neck, and slams his face into the wooden table. The sickening crunch of a breaking nose echoes in the silence.
Sofia screams. The guards do not blink.
Niccolò leaves the bleeding man on the table. He walks to me, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with possessiveness. He wraps his hand around my wrist.
"We are leaving," he growls.
He drags me out the front door, pulling me across the pavement toward the waiting Maybach. He opens the rear door, shoves me inside, and climbs in after me.
The door slams shut. The tinted glass seals us in a soundproof vault. The driver immediately puts the car in gear, pulling away from the curb.
Niccolò doesn't give me a second to process the violence.
He reaches across the leather seat, grabs my waist, and hauls me across the console. He drags me face-down over his lap.
"Niccolò!" I gasp, kicking my legs as my chest hits his thighs.
"A man looks at what is mine, and you just stand there," he snarls, his large hand pinning the small of my back to keep me down.
"I didn't do anything!"
"You belong to me," he bites out.
His hand comes down hard against my denim-clad ass.
The smack resonates in the confined space. A sharp, biting sting blooms across my skin, instantly sending a hot rush of blood straight to my core. I cry out, my hands gripping his kneecaps.
He strikes me again. Firmer. The sting deepens, melting into a wicked ache.
"Tell me who you belong to," he demands against my ear.
"You," I whimper, hating the way my body arches upward, chasing the punishment.
He flips me over in a single, fluid motion. I land on my back across the leather seat, my legs dangling off the edge. He looms over me, crowding my space, his broad shoulders blocking the faint streetlights bleeding through the tint.
He unzips my jeans with impatient, ruthless efficiency. He pulls the denim and my cotton panties down my thighs, exposing me to the cool air of the cabin.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his tone shifting from feral anger to a thick lust. "You're soaking wet for me."
I am. I am weeping for him, slick and flushed, my inner muscles clenching in anticipation.
He slips two thick fingers deep inside me.
I scream, tossing my head back against the leather. He stretches me, hitting the exact spot that makes my vision go white. He pumps his fingers in a relentless, dirty rhythm, his thumb circling the swollen nub above.
"You can’t exist without this," he whispers, leaning down to bite my jaw.
"Please," I sob, my hips thrashing upward, seeking maximum friction.
He withdraws his fingers. They are coated in my slickness. He brings them to my mouth.
"Taste it," he orders softly.
I part my lips. He slips his fingers into my mouth. I suck them, tasting my own salt and sweetness mixed with his skin. The filthy, degrading intimacy of the act completely obliterates my shame. I want it. I want all of his dirty, twisted demands.
He groans, the sound ripped from the bottom of his lungs. He yanks his fingers out, unzips his trousers, and frees his thick length. He grips my hips, hauling me to the edge of the seat, and drives inside me with an unforgiving thrust.
I scream his name. He fills me completely, stretching me tight.
The car hits a bump, deepening the penetration. Niccolò loses his mind. He thrusts into me with a desperate, wild lack of control. He buries his face in my neck, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.
"Livia," he chokes out, his hips slamming against mine.
I wrap my arms around his neck, my nails biting into his shoulders. I feel the exact moment his iron-clad discipline shatters. I feel the tremor in his arms, the frantic, unchecked desperation in his kiss.
I am trapped in his world, yes, I am.