Chapter 6 #2
"You're fucking lying." She repeated. "Your voice screams it. Olivia, listen, whatever's up, tell me—"
"Really fine." I cut in, softening. "Really. He's loaded, treats me okay. Big house, no work, no debt. Sophie's school covered. Isn't that great?"
Ella was quiet a few seconds.
"Do you love him?"
I stared at the sky.
A bird flew by, quick, shrunk to a dot, gone in clouds.
I opened my mouth. "I—"
"Miss Adrian."
A voice behind me.
I turned, saw Elsa nearby, face sour.
"I'm on the phone," I said.
"Mr. Visconti wants to see you," she said. "Now. Go to your room and wait."
My heart skipped.
"Now?"
"Yes." No room to argue. "Please, Miss Adrian."
I stood. Swing creaked, chains rattling. Phone in hand, screen lit, Ella's voice faint—"Olivia? What? Something wrong?"
"Ella," I pressed it to my ear, forcing normal. "Gotta go."
"Oli—"
"I'm fine," I said. "Really. I'll call back."
I hung up, stood, and followed Elsa back.
"What's he want?" I asked.
No answer.
Through the lawn, past fountain, into the main house. Up stairs, down the long hall, to my door.
"Wait inside," she said. "He'll come after business."
"He's coming to my room?"
She glanced at me, looking unsettling.
"Family's asking," she said, tone flat. "About you and him. Elders unhappy—you've been here two months, and he never visits your room. Doesn't look like real husband and wife."
I froze.
"So—"
"So he needs to put on a show." She cut in. "Make them believe the marriage is real."
She turned and left.
I stood at the door, watched her vanish down the hall.
Pushed it open, went in.
Sat on the bed, heart racing.
He was coming.
To put on a show.
To convince them we were real.
I didn't know what to think.
I sat on the bed for a long time.
Sky outside was pitch black. Elsa said he'd come at four, now the antique clock pointed to nine.
Five hours.
I'd showered, changed, changed back, ended up in my old pajamas from home—cotton, washed a million times, edges frayed. Didn't touch the silk and lace in the closet.
Clock chimed.
Nine-thirty.
I clutched the blanket, stared at the door.
He wasn't coming.
I knew he wouldn't.
Five hours—plenty of time for excuses. Busy, forgot, changed mind—anything. Especially since he didn't want to see me. That day in the hall, he passed without a glance.
I pulled the blanket up, lay down, and closed my eyes.
Footsteps outside.
Heavy, steady, closer.
My breath stopped.
They paused at the door. Silence, seconds, then it opened.
I sat up.
He stood in the doorway.
Moonlight streamed in, hitting him. No suit, just a dark robe, belt loose, collar open, chest exposed. Hair messier than daytime, falling over forehead.
But those eyes, clear.
Deep green, cold as ice.
I smelled booze. Heavy, mixed with cigar.
He'd drunk a lot.
He stepped in and shut the door behind him.
My heart pounded.
"Ezio—"
No words.
He walked to the bed. One step, two, three. Steady, not drunk-like.
I didn't know what I thought. First instinct—shrink back. I did, scooted away, back against the headboard, gripping the blanket.
He stopped at the bed.
Looked down at me.
Eyes empty. Not the hall's coldness—that was emotion. This was nothing, like eyeing an object.
"People outside." He said.
Voice flat, no tone.
I blinked.
"What?"
"Hall end. Garden," he said. "Elders' spies. Watching."
It hit me.
The doubters. The ones needing proof.
That's why he came.
Not to see me, not from that bathroom night, because watchers forced him.
"So," I said softly. "You're here to prove it."
No words.
But silence answered.
I gripped the blanket, knuckles white.
"Okay," I said. "Prove it."
He watched me, then reached, grabbed the blanket, and yanked it off.
Cold air hit. I wore only that thin, see-through old pajama, body bare in moonlight. His gaze slid from collarbone down, over nipples, waist, stopping on my belly's slight swell.
Just a second.
Then he leaned in, hands bracing beside me, trapping me between the headboard and him. Booze stronger, but those green eyes sharp, scary clear.
"Lie down."
I didn't move.
He waited two seconds.
Then his large hand gripped my chin, forcing my head up.
"I said, lie down."
His tone sent a chill through my entire body.
I slowly lay flat on my back, the cold bedsheet pressing against my skin.
He straightened up and untied the belt of his robe.
The fabric slid off, and he stood completely naked in the moonlight.
His shoulders were broad, his waist powerful, and his abs sharply defined.
His cock was already fully erect, thick veins winding around the shaft, the swollen head glistening with a dark, wet sheen under the moonlight—its size intimidating.
He leaned down again.
His hand seized the collar of my nightgown and ripped it apart with one brutal tug.
Buttons flew off, the thin fabric tore open, and my breasts spilled out.
My nipples hardened instantly from the cold air and fear.
He glanced down at them, then covered one breast with his palm, his thumb rubbing over the stiff peak with just enough pressure to make me gasp sharply.
Then he flipped me over, forcing me onto my stomach.
My face was buried in the pillow; I couldn't see anything. I could only feel his weight, his heat, and his hands.
His palm slid down my waist, yanking off the last scrap of my panties.
"Ezio—"
He didn't answer.
My legs were roughly shoved apart by his knees.
His fingers came first—two of them, pushing straight into my still-dry pussy. The friction was harsh and painful. I flinched hard, but he didn't stop. His fingertips dug deeper, probing inside me as if inspecting something.
"Relax," he said, his voice low and flat.
I bit down on the pillow. My pregnancy-sensitive body betrayed me quickly, growing wet around his fingers. I heard him let out a low, mocking laugh, and my cheeks burned with shame.
He withdrew his fingers and replaced them with the scorching head of his cock. The thick, hard tip rubbed back and forth along my slit a few times, grinding against my folds until my thighs trembled. Then his hips sank forward, and he drove his entire length inside me in one brutal thrust.
No foreplay. No mercy.
I bit the pillow so hard my jaw ached, choking back a scream. My inner walls were forcibly stretched open around his thick cock, every inch claimed without resistance. The head slammed straight into the deepest part of me, making my lower belly ache.
He started thrusting.
Hard. Deep. Each stroke felt like he was trying to nail me to the bed. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as his cock pistoned in and out, and I could feel my unwilling arousal leaking down my inner thighs.
His hand fisted in my hair and yanked my face out of the pillow.
"Don't bite," he said coldly. "There are people outside. Let them hear."
I looked into his eyes.
They were empty. No warmth. No emotion.
Only duty.
Only proof.
He kept moving, faster now. His heavy balls slapped against my ass with loud, wet smacks. Every time he pulled out, the flared ridge of his cockhead dragged across that sensitive spot inside me, mixing pain with unwanted pleasure until tears streamed down my face.
Suddenly, he paused.
His large hand moved to my slightly rounded belly and pressed down gently.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice as casual as if he were asking about the weather.
I couldn't answer. My throat was too tight.
He waited one second, then continued thrusting. The rhythm slowed slightly, but the force didn't lessen. Each deep plunge felt deliberate, as if he were trying to brand himself into my body.
I don't know how long it lasted.
Finally, he let out a low, guttural groan. His hips slammed forward one last time, burying his cock to the hilt. The swollen head pressed hard against my cervix as thick, hot spurts of cum flooded deep inside me, the heat making my belly spasm.
He stayed buried inside me for a long time, his cock twitching lightly, as if confirming something.
Then he pulled out.
Warm fluid immediately leaked from between my legs, his cum mixed with my own juices, sticky and messy.
He got up and walked into the bathroom. The sound of running water followed.
A while later, he came out, already wearing his robe again.
I remained lying face-down on the bed, motionless.
He stood by the bedside and looked at me for a few seconds.
"Someone will bring breakfast tomorrow," he said. "Tell them what you want to eat."
I didn't respond.
His footsteps faded. The door opened and closed.
The room fell back into dead silence.
I slowly turned over and stared up at the ceiling. The moonlight was bright, illuminating the mess on the bed.
The warmth and stickiness of him still lingered between my legs, and a dull ache throbbed in my lower abdomen.
In my heart, I whispered very softly,
"I'm sorry, baby."
Then I pulled the blanket over my head, covering myself completely, and closed my eyes.