Page 52 of Claimed Through Deception

He freezes. He turns his head slowly, looking at me over his broad shoulder. The darkness in his eyes softens just a fraction when they land on my face.

He opens his hand.

Gia drops to the tiles like a sack of stones. She collapses, hacking and coughing, dragging frantic breaths into her bruised throat. She scrambles backward on her hands and knees, terrified of the man looming over her.

"Get your things," Niccolò commands, looking down at her with complete disgust. "You have five minutes to leave this property. If you are still inside the gates when the clock strikes two, I will have Alessio drag you to the basement."

Gia doesn't say a word. She scrambles to her feet, stumbling down the hall, crying hysterically as she runs toward the servant's exit.

The corridor falls quiet again.

Niccolò turns his attention to me. He looks at the blood on my knee where a piece of glass cut my skin. He looks at my shaking hands and drops to his knees.

He ignores the sharp shards of glass digging into his expensive trousers. He reaches out and gently picks up the crumpled photograph from the floor. He brushes a piece of dust from my mother’s faded face with the pad of his thumb.

He holds it out to me.

I take it, my fingers brushing against his. His skin is warm.

"I'll have it reframed," he says softly.

I clutch the photo to my chest. "You didn't hit me."

"I told you I wouldn't."

"She broke it. I was just trying to dust it and..." My voice cracks.

Niccolò stands up. He doesn't offer empty platitudes. He steps close, invading my space, swallowing the chill of the hallway with his intense body heat.

He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around mine. His grip is firm, an undeniable shackle, but it doesn't bruise.

"Come with me."

18

Niccolò

I do not let go of her hand.

I drag Livia down the corridor, the heavy thud of my boots masking the quiet sound of her bare feet. The two guards stationed at the top of the sweeping staircase avert their eyes, staring blankly at the wall. They know better than to look at my face right now. The homicidal violence from the hallway is still humming through my veins, a dark, aggressive frequency that demands an outlet.

I pull her straight toward my private suite.

I push the heavy oak double doors open, haul her inside, and kick them shut with my heel. I reach out and throw the heavy brass deadbolt. The loud, metallic click seals us in.

Livia stands in the center of the Persian rug. She is clutching the faded photograph of her mother against her chest. Her breathing is shallow, her dark eyes wide as they track my movements. She just watched me hold a woman off the floor by her throat. She knows exactly what I am capable of, and yet, she followed me.

I walk up to her, reach out, and gently take the crumpled picture from her shaking fingers. I walk over to the mahogany nightstand, placing it carefully beside the lamp.

When I turn back around, the adrenaline bleeding off my skin morphs into suffocating lust.

I close the distance between us. Livia takes a step back, her heel hitting the edge of the rug, but I do not stop. I keep walking until I force her to retreat. She moves backward, step by step, until her spine hits the solid wood of the locked door.

I plant my hands on the wood on either side of her head, caging her in.

"I am done," I murmur.

Her chest heaves. "Done with what?"