Page 40 of Claimed Through Deception

I pull my hands out of the freezing water and grip the edges of the porcelain sink. My chest heaves. I swore I would never let a violent man dictate my body, yet I practically begged Niccolò Severato to consume me. My willpower is nothing against the feral lust he pulls out of my blood.

I grab a towel, dry my hands, and walk out of the bathroom and then find my way into my small assigned bedroom.

I freeze.

Three black velvet boxes sit perfectly aligned on the center of my mattress. Beneath them lies a slip of deep crimson silk, the fabric pooling like spilled blood against the white bedsheets.

These were not here when I left earlier.

I walk slowly toward the bed. I reach out with a shaking hand and flip open the lid of the largest velvet box.

Diamonds catch the light from the window. It is a necklace, thick and heavy, glittering with perfection. I open the second box. Diamond earrings. The third holds a delicate, diamond-encrusted bracelet.

My stomach churns. A bitter, metallic taste rises in the back of my throat.

I look at the jewels, and I don't see wealth. I don't see beauty. I see a leash.

My father used to play this exact game. He would drink his cheap whiskey, his knuckles bloodied, while my mother was curled into a sobbing ball on the hard kitchen floor. The next afternoon, he would walk through the front door holding a cheap, gold-plated chain from a local pawn shop. He would clasp the chain around my mother's bruised neck, a shiny apology meant to buy her silence and guarantee her compliance.

Niccolò is using a different tax bracket, but the manipulation is exactly the same.

He broke my boundaries in his office. Well, I allowed him. He proved he could make me surrender, and now he is leaving expensive collars on my bed to reward my submission. He wants to dress me in silk and diamonds, turning me into a pretty, compliant doll he can press against a wall whenever the urge strikes him.

Disgust burns through my veins, incinerating the lingering lust from the office.

I snap the velvet box shut. I gather the boxes in my arms, grab the crimson silk dress, and walk over to the small plastic trash can in the corner of the room. I drop them inside. The heavy velvet hits the bottom with a muffled thud.

I will not wear his bribes. I will not be bought.

I turn my back on the trash can and walk to the window.

The sky outside bruises a violent, angry purple. Heavy, charcoal-grey clouds roll low over the Boston skyline, swallowing the remaining daylight. The wind howls, rattling the windowpanes with aggressive force.

A jagged flash of lightning rips across the sky, illuminating the sprawling grounds of the estate. A second later, thunder shakes the stone foundation of the house. The vibration travels up through the floorboards, rattling my bones.

The lights overhead flicker. Once. Twice.

Then they die.

The estate plunges into blackness. The hum of the central air conditioning cuts off, leaving behind a thick silence broken only by the raging weather outside.

I pull my knees to my chest, sitting on the edge of the mattress. The rain begins to lash against the glass, a drumming that blocks out all other sound.

The noise pulls me backward. It drags me down into a dark, inescapable undertow.

I am ten years old. The rain is hitting the tin roof of our porch. Water pools in the cracks of the uneven driveway. The heavy knock on the front door echoes in my skull, loud enough to wake the dead.

I see the police officer standing in the downpour, his badge catching the amber glow of the porch light. I smell the wet asphalt. I hear my mother’s agonizing wail as the cop delivers the news of the car crash.

My chest seizes. The oxygen in my bedroom vanishes.

I scramble off the bed, my bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. The walls of the small room are closing in, shrinking, crushing my ribs. The dark is a physical weight pressing against my throat. I need space. I need air.

I fumble blindly for the door handle. I stumble out into the pitch-black hallway.

The estate feels like a tomb. There are no emergency lights on this floor. I feel my way along the smooth wallpaper, my breathing coming in short, jagged gasps. The panic is clawing inside my chest. I blindly navigate the corridor, desperate to find an open room, a window, anything to stop the suffocating crush of the memories.

My hands hit solid, carved wood, and from what I can feel, they are the heavy double doors of the library.