Page 28 of Claimed Through Deception

The door swings open.

Marta stands in the doorway. Her eyes sweep over me sitting on the concrete floor, then flick to the pile of un-ironed shirts on the table.

"Get up," Marta snaps, her tone devoid of an ounce of sympathy. "I did not authorize a break. If you want to slack off, you will do it on your own time. Finish the pressing, and then scrub the floors in the east wing."

She doesn't ask why the door was locked. She knows. She sanctioned it with her silence.

I don't defend myself. I don't point fingers. I simply push myself up from the concrete, my muscles screaming in protest.

"Yes, Marta," I say flatly.

I turn back to the ironing board. I pick up the heavy iron and press it to the fabric.

I finish the laundry. I carry the heavy baskets up three flights of stairs. I scrub the east wing floors on my hands and knees until the skin on my palms is raw and blistered. The physical exhaustion is so absolute it borders on numbness.

But the numbness doesn't reach my head. It doesn't reach the heavy, pulsing ache settling deep between my thighs.

As I scrub the marble tiles, leaning over the bucket of soapy water, my mind cruelly drags me back to the study. To the night before he left.

I plunge the brush into the water, scrubbing harder, but I can't wash away the sensory memory. I feel the solid, immovable wall of his chest pressing flush against my spine. I feel the intoxicating heat radiating off his skin, swallowing me whole.

My breath hitches in the empty hallway.

He caged me against the liquor cabinet. He smelled like bergamot and danger. And when he pressed against me, I felt the thick, hard ridge of his arousal digging into my lower back through the fabric of his trousers.

The memory sends a violent shock of wetness straight to my core.

I squeeze my eyes shut, a hot flush creeping up my neck. I hate it. I hate my own body for craving him. When his rough thumb dragged over my racing pulse, when he leaned in so close our lips were separated by a fraction of an inch, I wasn't thinking about escaping. I wasn't thinking about my independence.

I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted the monster to completely devour me.

The realization is a sickening, humiliating rot in my stomach. I am everything Gia accused me of being. I am terrified of him, yes. He ruined my life. But the dark, twisted truth is that his dominance doesn't just scare me—it turns me on. The way he looked at me, the way he commanded me to pour his drink while pressing his erection against my spine... it completely short-circuited my brain.

I wanted to surrender. Just for a second, I wanted to let him take the weight of the world off my shoulders and pin me to that mahogany desk.

I dunk the brush into the dirty water again, violently angry with myself. I am weak.

It is nearly eight in the evening when I am finally carrying my bucket and brushes back toward the utility closets near the staff lounge. The hallway is quiet. The only sound is the sloshing of the dirty water in my bucket.

As I approach the slightly ajar door of the staff lounge, the sound of hushed, excited voices drifts out into the corridor.

I stop. I don't want to walk past them. I don't want to give Gia another opportunity to shoulder-check me into the wall. I press my back against the expensive wallpaper, intending to wait until they leave the room.

"Did you see the fabric samples that came in today?" a maid named Elena asks, her voice breathless with excitement.

"I saw them," Gia replies, a smug, arrogant lilt to her tone. "Silk from Milan. Real lace. It’s going to be the wedding of the decade. The entire eastern seaboard is going to be there."

"I can't believe it's actually happening," Elena sighs. "I heard the Don broke a man’s jaw at a meeting yesterday just because he questioned the guest list."

I frown, my grip tightening on the plastic handle of the bucket. A wedding?

"Well, it’s about time," Gia says. I hear the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. "The alliance with the Falco family is too important. Don Roberto has been pushing for this marriage for three years. Don Niccolò is finally stepping up."

The bucket slips from my fingers.

It hits the floor with a loud, hollow thud. Dirty water splashes over the sides, soaking into the runner rug.

My heart stops. It doesn't just stutter; it completely ceases to beat in my chest.