Chapter 52
The room is beautiful. That’s the first thing I notice, and it feels wrong that my brain latches onto something like that after everything that’s happened.
The bed is too big, draped in soft white sheets that look like they’ve never been touched by anything messy or real.
The walls are warm, painted in a muted tone that should feel calming.
There’s a fireplace across the room, dark for now, with stonework so clean it looks decorative instead of functional.
A chandelier hangs overhead, not gaudy, just expensive in a way I don’t have a word for.
There are flowers on the table near the window. Fresh. Alive. The air smells like something light and expensive, not chemicals, not fear, not the damp rot of the place they kept me before.
Everything about this room says safe.
Everything about it is a lie.
I stand just inside the doorway, barefoot, still in the lingerie they put me in, my skin prickling under the weight of it, the collar cold and present against my throat.
My body feels like it doesn’t belong to me yet.
Every movement reminds me of hands, restraints, the way my limbs stopped feeling like my own.
The man who brought me here doesn’t speak.
He steps back into the hall, and the door closes behind him with a soft click.
Locked. Silence settles in immediately. Not the loud kind from before, filled with voices and footsteps and the constant reminder that I wasn’t alone.
This is quiet in a way that presses in on my ears, like the room is holding its breath.
I take a step forward. The carpet sinks slightly under my feet, soft enough that it almost feels unreal.
My legs protest the movement, muscles still tight, still sore, still recovering from being held in one position too long.
I don’t rush it. I don’t push. Small movements.
Controlled. Stay present. I move toward the bed and stop just short of it.
I could sit. I don’t. Not yet. Sitting feels like giving in to the comfort of a place that doesn’t deserve to feel comfortable.
My eyes move around the room instead. A dresser along the wall, polished wood without a single scratch.
A mirror above it, large enough to show my entire reflection.
I don’t look at it. Not yet. A door to the right, probably a bathroom.
Another to the left, likely a closet. Everything here is neat.
Organized. Intentional. Nothing like the chaos I expected from the kind of man who would buy a woman.
My chest tightens.
I’d take the clubhouse over this any day.
The thought comes fast. Clear. No hesitation.
I’d take the noise. The chaos. The kids running through the room. The women arguing and laughing and moving like they belong. The men watching everything without making it feel like a cage. I’d take Cobra’s room. Small. Rough. His.
Over this. Over the quiet. Over the way this place looks like safety but feels like something else entirely.
I wrap my arms around myself without thinking, fingers pressing into my skin like I need the contact to remind me I’m still here. Still in my body. Still alive.
The silence stretches. Seconds. Minutes.
I don’t know.
Time feels different here. Less urgent. More suffocating.
I move toward the window, drawn by the faint glow of light outside.
Heavy curtains frame it, but they’re pulled back enough to show the grounds.
The estate stretches out farther than I expected.
Lights line the driveway. Trees stand tall and trimmed, shadows cast in perfect shapes.
There’s no movement I can see. No guards pacing.
No obvious threat. That makes it worse. Because it means the threat is hidden.
Organized. Controlled. A soft sound behind me pulls me from the window.
The door opens.
I turn immediately, body going still, every muscle tightening as I prepare for whatever comes next.
A man steps inside. He closes the door behind him without looking away from me. He’s not what I expected. That thought hits almost as hard as everything else tonight.
He’s dressed well. Not flashy. Not overdone.
Just clean lines, tailored in a way that speaks of money without needing to announce it.
Dark hair, slightly longer on top, pushed back.
His face is calm. Not cold. Not warm. Controlled.
His eyes move over me. Not like the others.
Not lingering. Not hungry. Assessing. That’s the word that fits.
Like he’s looking at a situation, not a body. “Olivia,” he says.
My name. Not lot number. Not inventory. It hits me harder than it should. I don’t answer right away.
He doesn’t rush me. He steps farther into the room, hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed in a way that feels deliberate. Not predatory. Not careless. Controlled. “I’m Matteo Vittorio,” he adds. The name settles into place. Buyer. The man who owns this house. The man who bought me.
I swallow. “Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it.
He studies me for a moment. Not offended. Not surprised. Like he expected that question. “Because you were available,” he says.
My stomach twists. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the most accurate one you’re going to get right now.”
I don’t like that. I don’t like any of this. But I hold his gaze. “Am I safe here?”
His eyes sharpen slightly. “Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation. Without softness. Without reassurance layered into it. Just fact.
“From you?” I press.
A flicker of something moves through his expression. Amusement. Barely there. “Yes,” he says again. “From me.” That matters. More than it should.
My arms tighten around myself. “What do you want with me?”
There it is. The real question. The one I’ve been avoiding asking because the answer might break whatever control I’ve managed to hold onto.
Matteo’s gaze shifts, studying me again. Like I’m a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit where it’s supposed to. “That depends on who you ask,” he says.
“That’s not an answer either.”
“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”
Frustration sparks. Real. Sharp. It reminds me I’m still me. “You spent money on me,” I say. “You brought me here. You put me in this room. You’re telling me I’m safe, but you’re not telling me why.”
His head tilts slightly. “You’re more direct than most,” he says.
“I don’t have the energy for anything else.”
That earns a small, genuine reaction. Not a smile. But close. “Fair,” he says. His gaze drops briefly to the collar at my throat. The air shifts. Not dramatically. But enough that I feel it. He steps closer. Slowly. Giving me time to react.
I don’t move. Not because I’m not afraid. Because I am. But this feels different.
He reaches up. My entire body tenses. Every muscle locking as his fingers brush the metal at my throat.
The collar is colder now. He presses something small and hidden along the edge.
There’s a soft click. Then another. The pressure changes.
The spikes retract. Not fully. But enough.
My breath catches. He unfastens it with practiced ease. The metal slides away from my skin.
And for a second, I don’t move. I just stand there. Because the absence of it feels wrong. Like something that’s been part of me for too long suddenly isn’t there, and my body doesn’t know what to do with that. Then sensation floods back in. Heat. Air. Freedom. Pain.
My hand comes up automatically, fingers brushing the raw skin where the collar sat.
It stings. It aches. It feels like my body is remembering itself piece by piece.
I didn’t realize how much it weighed until it was gone.
My throat tightens. Not from the metal. From everything else. I force it down. No tears. Not here.
Matteo watches the entire thing. Carefully. Like he’s measuring something. “Better?” He asks.
I nod once. Small. Controlled. “Why?” I ask again, quieter this time.
He exhales slowly. Not impatient. Not dismissive. Just considering. “Because you don’t belong in that system,” he says. The words land differently.
I study his face. “You just bought me from it.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make you better.”
“No,” he agrees. “It doesn’t.” That honesty throws me. More than if he’d tried to justify it.
“Then what does it make you?” I ask.
He holds my gaze. “A man with access,” he says. “And a reason to use it.”
My chest tightens.
Cobra.
The thought is immediate. It has to be. It has to be connected.
My voice drops. “He’s coming.”
Matteo’s expression doesn’t change. But something in his eyes sharpens. “Maybe,” he says. Relief hits me so fast it almost knocks me back. Not soft. Not gentle. Sharp. Like something that’s been coiled tight inside me finally loosens just enough to let me breathe.
“You know him,” I say.
“I know of him.” That’s enough.
“Is he—” My voice catches. “Is he okay?”
Matteo studies me for a long second. “Yes,” he says. “He’s doing exactly what you think he is right now.”
My lips press together. That tells me everything. “He’s going to kill them,” I whisper.
Matteo’s mouth curves faintly. “If they’re lucky, it’ll be quick.”
A small, almost hysterical sound wants to escape me. I swallow it. “He’ll find me,” I say.
Matteo tilts his head slightly. “You don’t need to be found,” he says.
Confusion spikes. “What?”
“You’re being returned.” The words take a second to settle. Then another.
“Oh.” Shock. Relief. Disbelief. All of it crashes together. “You’re—” I shake my head. “You’re giving me back?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because that was the arrangement.”
Arrangement.
The word echoes.
“With him?” I ask.
“With his club,” Matteo corrects. That fits. That feels right. Cobra wouldn’t ask. He would take. But he would also make sure I lived long enough to be taken back.
My chest feels too tight. Too full. “When?” I ask.
“Soon.” That’s not a time. But it’s enough.
“For now,” he continues, “you stay here.”
I nod. I can do that. I can stay. I’ve done worse.
He turns slightly toward the door. Then pauses. “One more thing.”
I look at him.
“My right hand, Nico, will take you back to them.”
Nico.
Another name. Another man I’ll have to trust. Or at least not fight.
Matteo glances at me again. “And I’ll be accompanying you.”
My brow furrows. “Why?”
His expression shifts just slightly. Something older. Something personal. “I have an old friend I’d like to say hello to.”
Cobra.
It has to be.
The thought settles deep. And for the first time since this started something like certainty replaces fear. Not that I’m safe. Not that this is over. But that I’m going back. Back to him. Back to the chaos that makes sense. Back to the man who will burn the world for me.
My fingers curl at my sides. Steady. Grounded. Alive. Shock lingers. Relief pushes under it. Disbelief wraps around both.
But one truth rises above everything else.
Clear.
Unshakable.
I’m going back to him.