Page 21 of Claimed Through Deception

He wants compliance. He wants to strip my independence down to the bone and turn me into an obedient servant. He expects me to pour his drinks, to clean his house, to lower my eyes.

A dark, intrusive thought suddenly poisons my mind.

Is he just like him?

My father demanded the exact same things. He wanted a hot meal on the table when he walked through the door. He wanted silence when he was watching television. And when my mother didn't move fast enough, when she accidentally dropped a plate or burnt the roast, the violence was instantaneous. The backhand was always waiting.

Niccolò wears a nicer suit, but he uses the same tools. Fear. Intimidation. Control.

My heart starts hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs. The adrenaline spikes, making my hands tremble.

I step up to the liquor cabinet. I reach out with shaking fingers and wrap my hand around the neck of the heavy crystal decanter. Niccolò is watching me out of the corner of his eye.

I lift the decanter off the silver tray. It is heavy. I hold it suspended in the air for one agonizing second.

And then, I deliberately loosen my grip.

I let it slip through my fingers.

The heavy crystal hits the hardwood floor with a deafening, explosive crash.

Glass shatters everywhere. The amber bourbon splashes across the polished wood, soaking into the edges of the expensive rug. Sharp, jagged shards of crystal scatter in every direction, pinging against the legs of the mahogany desk.

My trauma instantly takes the wheel.

I don't even think about it. The reaction is hardwired into my nervous system. I violently flinch, taking a sharp step backward. My bare heel catches the edge of the rug, and I stumble, my shoulders hunching inward.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I turn my face away, burying my chin into my collarbone, and I brace for the hit.

I wait for the roar of anger. I wait for the heavy, calloused hand to crack across my jaw. I wait for the physical punishment of disobedience. I tense every muscle in my body, my breath locked in my throat, ready for the pain.

One second. Two seconds.

"Livia. Don't move."

His voice isn't a roar. It isn't a shout. It is a sharp, urgent command.

I open my eyes.

Niccolò hasn't raised a hand to me. He hasn't pulled his arm back to strike.

Instead, the six-foot-four beast is dropping to his knees.

He falls to his knees right in front of me, completely disregarding the puddle of spilled bourbon soaking into the expensive fabric of his tailored trousers. He doesn't look at my face. He looks directly at the floor.

I am frozen. My brain entirely short-circuits.

He reaches out with his large, heavily tattooed hands. He doesn't grab my ankles. He carefully, meticulously begins sweeping the jagged shards of broken crystal away from my bare toes.

He picks up a massive, razor-sharp piece of glass that had landed a fraction of an inch from my foot and tosses it aside.

"Are you cut?" he asks tightly.

"N-no," I stammer. My voice sounds like it belongs to a stranger.

He sweeps the last of the fine glass dust away with the side of his hand. He doesn't care that the sharp edges bite into his own skin. He clears a completely safe, clean path for my bare feet on the hardwood.

Only then does he look up at me.