Chapter 2
Zoe
The water stings when it touches the bruises.
I sink deeper anyway. The faucet hisses like it resents being touched. But the tub holds water, and right now, that’s all I need.
The steam curls against my skin. For a moment, I forget the basement. The ropes. The way those men looked at me like I was milk gone sour.
I scrub until my skin turns pink. Dirt lifts in cloudy tendrils around me. I find a bottle of shampoo. It smells like him. It’s expensive and I use it without remorse. I’ll die soon after all.
My fingers brush the curve of my shoulder. The knot in my throat rises.
I know who he is. The new Don. Nico Viselli.
They left me there knowing I would die once he found me.
In a way I am a peace offering. Men like him, they never leave their enemies standing.
By no choice of mine, I was with his enemy.
My death was the right thing. Leaving me alive would be a sign he was a coward who could be toyed with at no consequence.
I drain the tub and wrap the towel tight around me. It’s thick, soft. I should feel comforted.
When I step into the bedroom, the light is dim.
He’s still sitting there. He looks at me.
A glance so fast I almost miss it.
His eyes green, darker than mine skim down my legs, up to the edge of the towel, then to my face. His jaw tightens. His gaze hardens.
His shirt is unbuttoned at the top, revealing the strong cut of his collarbone, the smooth stretch of olive-toned skin. His dark hair falls a little over his brow. His shoulders are wide beneath his black dress shirt. His arms hang loose at his sides, but I can feel the tension coiled inside them.
And in that moment, I realize that I want him to want me.
So maybe that’s why I walk slowly across the room. Maybe that’s why my fingers tremble as I reach up and undo the knot at my chest.
The towel slips. I stand naked staring at him and panting.
This is all I get. A single night of being seen. A final moment of being touched because someone wants to, not because they’re paid to or ordered to.
If I’m going to die, I want to remember what it felt like to choose something. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s him, the man going to kill me.
Nico’s voice is low. “Put it back on.”
I meet his eyes.
“I don’t want to.”
He stands.
The air leaves my lungs.
He walks toward me and he stops inches away. Close enough that I can smell the scotch on his breath, the smoke on his skin, the heat rolling off his body.
My heart is a drum inside my chest. My hands hang at my sides. He lowers his eyes. Not to stare but to reach.
He picks up the towel from the floor and he doesn’t look away as he holds it out to me.
I look at him. I want to beg.
Touch me.
Let me feel something before I disappear.
But he says nothing.
I take the towel and my fingers brush his as I do, and he doesn’t pull away right away.
His knuckles are scraped. His wrist is cut.
I close the space between us, lift onto my toes, and press my mouth to his.
His lips are warm, firm, still at first. Then he kisses me back.
His mouth moves over mine like a man trying to stop himself and failing, restrained only by the barest thread. I taste the scotch on his lips with a trace of something unexpectedly sweet underneath. It coats my tongue, makes me dizzy.
His hand fists in my hair. I can feel the grit in his breath, the growl at the back of his throat. He’s angry.
His mouth pulls away just enough to speak, his voice rough against my lips. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
I breathe, chest brushing the front of his shirt, my skin bare against his tailored suit.
“Is this your plan?” he mutters, kissing me again between the words. “You think this is how you’ll save yourself? Because it’s not going to work.”
His hand slides around my waist. Fingers splay across the small of my back. I feel the contrast of my naked skin against his expensive clothes and warm hands.
I look up at him, heart thudding. “It’s not to save myself.”
“Then what is it?,” he asks, eyes fierce, his hands circling around my neck.
“It’s my plan,” I whisper. “My last night plan. Before I die.”
He growls and kisses me again. He circles both arms around my waist and lifts me off the floor. I gasp my legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, skin brushing against his belt and the lapels of his coat.
He carries me like I’m nothing, like I weigh less than the decision he’s about to make.
His mouth never leaves mine. Each kiss is harder, hungrier, more desperate than the last. My bare skin burns against his clothes, the contrast unbearable. His breath is hot and I drink it like it might be my last.
Then I feel the bed beneath me.
He lays me down fast, climbing over me. His hands are already on my body splaying across my waist, his fingers digging into my thighs as he forces them apart. I gasp, as his lips move from my mouth to my jaw, down to my throat, where he bites hard enough to make me cry out.
Then he grabs my hair and jerks my head back just enough to meet his eyes.
“You started this,” he growls. “Now you’re going to take it.”
He releases my hair, rises to his knees, and pushes his slacks down in one motion. His cock springs free and he’s already grabbing a condom. My heart pounds so loudly I can barely hear the rip, but the snap of the foil tears through the room.
He leans down, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Tonight?” he whispers. “I own you.”
My pulse trips. “I—” I whisper, and swallow the lump in my throat. “You own me, Don.”
“Say it, again.”
“You own me,” I say again, voice shaking, heat flooding my face.
His mouth is onto mine as he rolls the condom on with one hand. The other pins my wrists above my head, holding me open beneath him.
He kisses down my neck, between my breasts, then back up—his voice a rumble against my lips.
“Beg for it.”
My body is already trembling, hips arching toward him, aching for him. But he waits, cock thick against my thigh.
My pride shatters between my teeth.
“Please…” I whisper. “Please, Don. I want you.”
He smirks and he enters into me in one , fluid stroke.
I cry out as he fills me, stretches me, makes my back arch off the bed. My pussy clenches around him tight, like my body’s trying to hold onto him.
He grunts above me, his eyes locked to mine.
“Good girl,” he hums. “Look at how good you take me.”
My body jolts, a cry torn from my lips as he sinks in deep, dragging a moan from my chest. My back arches, every muscle tightening, trying to take him—trying to keep up with the rhythm he sets.
He stays inside me, hips pressed flush against mine, holding there, savoring how tight I squeeze him.
Then he pulls out halfway and stills.
I gasp. “Please… please keep going—”
He grabs my wrists again and pins them above my head, his palm wrapped tight around both, trapping me beneath his weight.
“You don’t get anything until I hear it. Beg me, girl.”
“I—Don, please—” I whimper, thighs twitching, hips arching upward. He holds me down, letting the head of his cock tease the edge of my entrance, just enough pressure to drive me mad.
“Not good enough,” he snaps, leaning down to flick his tongue across my nipple. He licks again, then sucks leave a sting.
My breath stutters. My pussy clenches around nothing. I’m aching.
“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers against my breast. “What do you want?”
“I want you to fuck me,” I gasp, eyes squeezed shut. “Please, Don. I need it.”
His hand tightens around my wrists.
“Good girl.”
Then he thrusts again making my whole body jolt up the bed. I cry out my thighs trembling as he pounds into me. His free hand grips my hip, dragging me back onto his cock, slamming into me.
My body’s soaked—slick between my legs, every thrust sending waves of heat and pressure through my core. He kisses me again, then drags his tongue down my neck, across my chest, latching onto my other breast and sucking.
“You’re so tight! Say you love my dick!”
“I—” I pant. “I love it. I love how you fuck me, Don.”
He groans against my breast.
Then, without warning, he pulls out and flips me over onto my stomach, dragging my hips up and forcing my face down into the pillows. I whimper, completely exposed, my ass in the air, my hands trying to brace against the sheets.
He thrusts back into me from behind.
I scream into the mattress.
He drives into me again and again, holding my hands trapped, his chest over my back, cock pounding so deep I feel him in my belly. I sob with the pleasure, thighs trembling, pussy clenching tight around him as he stretches me open with every thrust.
“Good girl, you take it so well.”
I feel his breath hot against my ear as he presses his body fully to mine.
“You want to come?” he growls, voice. “Beg me again.”
I’m shaking.
“Yes, Don—please, let me come,” I cry. “Please fuck me harder—I want to come on your cock, I need it, please—”
He slams into me again—harder than before—and my moan splits the air.
“Look at me,” he orders, his voice low, commanding. My gaze snaps to his on instinct, my body reacting before my mind can catch up.
His grip on my hips is firm, almost bruising, holding me in place as he pushes in to the hilt again and again. The thin roll of the condom does nothing to dull the heat of him, the way he fills me completely, claiming every inch until I can’t think of anything but how good it feels.
I can hear my own breathing mingling with the sound of skin meeting skin. Each stroke sends a shiver tearing through me, my walls fluttering around him.
“Close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his tone dripping with dark satisfaction. I can only nod, my body already tightening, my nails digging into his forearms as he keeps me right where he wants me.
Then he changes his pace and the air punches out of my lungs. The pleasure spikes, my orgasm cresting so fast I can’t stop it. My vision blurs as the wave hits, my whole body wracking, clenching around him in frantic pulses.
“Good girl,” he growls, thrusting through my release, each movement sending aftershocks rippling through my core. My thighs tremble, my back arches, and I sob, my body too weak to do anything but take him.
I feel him start to lose control, his grip tightening, his rhythm faltering. His jaw is clenched, his breath hot against my cheek. “Fuck,” he grits out, holding me down as his hips snap forward one final time.
His release crashes into him at the same time another tremor rips through me, and for a moment, we’re both locked together, him shuddering, me gasping, caught in the same blinding heat until the tension finally breaks.
When he stills, I’m limp beneath him, my skin slick, my pulse wild, my body still fluttering around him even as he eases out. He cups my cheek, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
The world is too bright.
For a second, I wonder if I’m still asleep. If the warmth of these sheets is some kind of dream my mind invented before it shuts down for good.
I try to stand up and a dull ache radiates through my hips, my thighs, my ribs. Every breath stretches tight skin over bruises.
I blink up at the ceiling. It’s white. The memories return in pieces.
A towel. A kiss. My cries, my pleas for more. How orgasm over orgasm hit my body. His hands on my waist, him filling me up.
I feel my face heat up as I look around for him.
Where is—
He’s standing near the door. Gun in hand.
He hasn’t noticed I’m awake. Or he has, and doesn’t care.
He’s dressed like he’s going to a war he’s already planned the casualties for. His sleeves are rolled up , shirt half-buttoned, slacks crisp, weapon gleaming black in his hand. There’s a speck of blood on his collarbone. I don’t know if it’s his or mine.
His face is blank and colder than I’ve seen it. No trace of last night. No evidence of heat or softness or hesitation. No evidence that I was nothing more than a strange woman.
He turns, finally to face me.
“Get dressed.”
The words are empty..
My stomach drops. The chill crawling through me isn’t from the air.
He’s going to kill me. This is it.
I don’t ask why. I don’t plead.
What’s the point?
If I were him, I wouldn’t leave me alive either.
I sit up slowly. The sheets slide down, and I realize I’m completely bare beneath them.
He doesn’t look away.
He doesn’t look at me, either.
I find my dress on the chair. Folded. Neat. My fingers fumble at the zipper. My hands shake, but I get it on.
I don’t bother running a finger through my hair to smoothen it. Who cares about looks when it’s your last few minutes.
When I turn, he’s already opened the door.
“Walk.”
I follow him.
Each step feels like the last one I’ll take.
We move through the back corridors. Once, we pause and duck into a shadowed recess as footsteps pass nearby. I feel his hand press lightly to my back, the muzzle of the gun resting just below my ribs.
I don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified that he didn’t drag me down to a basement instead. At least I am getting a slightly more dignified death.
When we reach the back exit, the woods stretch out ahead. Thin trees. A muddy path with Rev early morning mist denting the view.
He steps aside and nods toward it. He lifts the gun.
And I close my eyes.
This is it.
I steady my breath. It shakes.
It’s okay.
If this is what ends me… I’ve had worse.
Then—
He speaks.
“Run.”
My eyes fly open.
“What?”
He stares ahead. “Leave the country. Change your name. Don’t tell anyone you existed.”
I stand frozen. It doesn’t make sense. This isn’t mercy. It’s— why does it feel worse than being killed?
He lifts the gun again and fires into the air.
The sound snaps me back into my body.
“Run!” he thunders, “Before I decide not to let you. I never want to see you again!”
What was I thinking? He is a stranger, he just set me free. One look at him, just one, that’s what I take before I turn and run. That’s when I realize I am barefoot.
The stones bite into my feet. My lungs burn with the cold air as I run into the bushes. Branches slice my skin as I push through the trees. My dress catches on twigs, rips along the side. Who cares? I don’t look back.
Not until the house is gone and my legs refuse to carry me further.