Page 35 of Claimed Through Deception

He hits me with the force of a tidal wave. He slams his palms against the wall on either side of my head. His massive body presses flush against mine, caging me in. He steps into my space, driving his heavy, muscular thigh directly between my legs, pinning me to the expensive wallpaper.

"You haven't looked at me once," he snarls. His chest is heaving against mine, the crisp white fabric of his tuxedo shirt feels hot against the cotton of my uniform.

I flatten my hands against the wall behind me. I refuse to push against his chest. I refuse to touch him.

"I am doing my job, Don Niccolò," I say. My voice is steady. It is the most impressive lie I have ever told. "Marta instructed me to keep my eyes on the floor."

"Fuck Marta," he growls, leaning his face so close to mine I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips. "Look at me."

I tilt my chin up, meeting his eyes with a blank, dead stare.

His jaw clenches. The muscle feathers violently beneath his skin. He hates it. He hates the titanium wall I have built between us. He is used to the fire. He is used to my defiance. This cold, mechanical obedience is driving him absolutely out of his mind.

"Where did you go?" he demands, his voice dropping into a harsh, desperate rasp. "You were in my study. You were in my bathroom. I know you felt what happened between us. And tonight, you treat me like a stranger."

"You are a stranger," I whisper. "You are my employer. I am your maid."

"I am the man who owns you," he corrects ruthlessly.

He shifts his weight. His thigh presses higher, firmer, right against the apex of my thighs.

A sharp, humiliating gasp rips out of my throat. A treacherous heat pools instantly in my core, an involuntary physical reaction to the hard friction of his body against mine.

His eyes darken instantly, the pupils expanding until they swallow the black irises. He feels my reaction. He feels the way my body betrays my mind.

"You're a liar," he murmurs, his tone is laced with dark triumph. He lowers his head, his nose brushing against my jawline. He breathes in the scent of my skin like a starving man. "You aren't a ghost, Livia. You're burning alive under this uniform."

He is right. I am burning. My skin is hypersensitive, my pulse is hammering so fast I feel dizzy. I want to grab the lapels of his tuxedo. I want to pull his mouth down to mine and let the monster consume me.

But then, woven beneath the scent of his bergamot cologne and the sharp tang of his aggression, I smell the expensive, floral perfume Caterina Falco was wearing at the table.

The scent is a bucket of ice water dumped directly over my head.

The fog of lust shatters.

I bring my hands up. I plant them flat against his chest, and I push with every ounce of strength I possess in my exhausted body.

"Get off me," I hiss with venom.

He doesn't budge, but the sheer hatred in my tone makes him freeze. He lifts his head, his eyes searching my face.

"Go back to your fiancée," I say. My voice is no longer blank. It is shaking with an intensity that matches his own. "Go back to the woman sitting at your table wearing your diamonds. You want a whore you can press against the wall in the dark? Buy one. But do not touch me."

The dark lust in his eyes fractures, replaced by a sudden, jarring shock. For the first time since I met him, Niccolò Severato is speechless.

I don't wait for him to recover. I use his momentary paralysis to duck under his arm.

I slide along the wall, escaping the suffocating heat of his body. I don't look back. I practically run down the service corridor, my shoes making no sound on the runner rug. I burst through the door leading to the staff quarters. I rush down the hall to my small room, throw the door open, and slam it shut behind me. I turn the lock with a loud, definitive click.

I stumble backward until my knees hit the edge of my narrow mattress. I collapse onto the bed. I grip the collar of my black uniform, pulling at the fabric because I suddenly cannot pull enough oxygen into my lungs.

I curl into a tight ball, burying my face into the thin pillow, and I finally shatter. The tears come hot, fast, and silent. My shoulders shake with the force of my suppressed sobs.

I am disgusted.

I am so deeply, profoundly disgusted with myself.

When he pinned me against that wall, when he drove his thigh between my legs, my first instinct wasn't to scream. It wasn't to fight. My first instinct was to surrender. My body ached for a man who is actively engaged to someone else. A man who orchestrates violence for a living. A man who ruined my entire life just to lock me in his house.