Chapter 25

LEILA  

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Misa came inside, her footsteps feels soft as she walked to my side, her presence a small anchor in the storm raging within me.

Her hands moved to my back, soothing, rubbing gentle circles, a silent acknowledgment of the raw terror that still clung to my skin.

“How the hell did my life get to this?” I can barely breathe at this moment  “Getting to watch bloodshed every damn day, and then serve him in bed.”

Except that the sex was perfect in a way that twisted my insides.

How had I even ended up here, in this gilded cage, my body betraying my mind at every turn? My head began to swim, my thoughts a chaotic jumble, my mind drifting to places I tried to keep locked away.

I felt a desperate urge to reach out to my mom again, to hear her voice, to know if she was alright.

If the treatment was going well, or if everything was falling apart back home from which he had promised he was taking care of her, and against all logic, I clung to his words.

Misa sat beside me, hopping onto the edge of the  bed, her gaze sympathetic. I looked at the ornate mahogany table across the room, hoping that maybe some semblance of food would have magically appeared, even though the very thought of eating made my stomach churn.

“I think it’s for your own good,” Misa said softly, her voice a low murmur. “I never did know that you had a bunch of letters hidden away in this big room. Telling him would’ve been the right thing to do. And Matteo… well, he deserved it. No one deserves that kind of threat. Did you do something to him?”

I shook my head, but my thoughts weren’t focused on Matteo’s fate right now, not really.

My mind was consumed by my own precarious position.

I couldn’t afford to make a grave mistake, to incur Damien’s wrath in the same way Matteo had, at least for my mother, and for the faint glimmer of a future I still dared to hope for, I had to be strong.

The hope of leaving this place, of reclaiming some way back to my old life, still was  within me, a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished. I knew, or at least I desperately wanted to believe, that Damien wouldn’t ultimately… wouldn’t truly destroy me.

A sharp knock echoed on the heavy door, and before either of us could react, Damien walked in.

My breath hitched, and I instinctively sprawled to the ground, a primal fear seizing me, I think he had finally realized that I was nothing but trouble, a loose end that needed to be eliminated and there was no fucking way I was going to let that happen without a fight, even if that fight was just me scrambling for survival.

He walked to my side, his presence filling the room, a dark and imposing figure.

“Get the fuck up,” he commanded, his voice low and dangerous.

I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaky.

Misa tried to slip past him, heading for the door, and he gave way, his gaze not leaving me, but she didn’t dare meet his eyes, her head bowed low as she practically ran from the room.

He had changed his clothes.

The dark suit he had worn earlier was gone, replaced by something more casual, but still tailored with a  nice scent, something musky and expensive, the kind of perfume that sneaked into your head and lingered, filled the air, but still my eyes remained fixed on the floor, unable to meet his gaze.

I could see the veins on the back of his hands, prominent and taut.

 The way his hands hung loosely at his sides, big and powerful, sent a shiver down my spine. I knew the kind of pressure those hands could exert, the way they could make my body crawl with a strange mix of fear and anticipation. And his proximity, even a few feet away, seemed to be doing enough to me.

My cunt felt slick, getting wetter by the damn minute, and my legs were trembling, trying to maintain some composure and  I prayed he didn’t notice the embarrassing physical reaction my body was having. A desperate, insane part of me just wanted his hands wrapped around me, one gripping my hair, pulling my head back.

This was insane.

This man had a hold on my senses, a terrifying, exhilarating power.

Fucking get ahold of yourself, Leila, my inner voice screamed, a desperate plea for control.

But my body wasn’t listening to my frantic commands. Instead, it was doing its own treacherous dance, a slow, agonizing burn of desire.

Another part of me, the reckless, masochistic part, wanted to tear off every piece of cloth he had on, to feel those hands that could inflict so much pain also deliver a different kind of torment, a different kind of pleasure.

“Leila,” he groaned, the sound pulling me back to the stark reality of him standing before me, his eyes intense.

He drew closer again, his gaze locking deep into mine.

He raised a finger, the same finger that had moments ago been the  cause of Matteo’s death and gently touched my lips. It was as if he had heard my silent scream, as if he knew the chaotic, conflicting thoughts that were tearing me apart.

His finger slid between my parted lips, and I let him, my body strangely compliant.

Then, he held my face, his grip rough but not painful, his thumb stroking my cheek softly, the pressure increasing, becoming harder and harder and then he stopped, his gaze dropping to my cleavage, his hands moving up to trace the delicate lines of my collarbone, before settling on the swell of my breasts.

He lingered there for a moment, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through me, before his eyes flicked back up to mine.

A small, involuntary moan escaped my lips, a sound that both embarrassed and thrilled me. While his eyes looked lost, almost haunted, and he abruptly dropped both his hands to his sides.

But just as I was trying to process everything, to regain some feeling of control over my racing thoughts and traitorous body, his hand shot out, tilting my head upward, his lips drawing close to mine.

His perfect lips.

They felt flushed, warm, and then he was lifting me, carrying me effortlessly, and placing me gently onto the soft mattress of the bed.

I had thought he was about to leave, to deliver some final, chilling pronouncement.

 I was only wearing a skimpy nightgown, and if he had turned and walked away right then, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I hadn’t even bothered with panties. And maybe my nightgown had ridden up, revealing the bare skin underneath, the shaved line of my pussy,  I just wanted his finger shoved inside me, so badly it was a physical ache.

He bent over me, drawing my body close, his hand sliding between my thighs, spreading my legs, making me bite down hard on my lip to stifle the moan that threatened to escape while I can taste the blood on it but he didn’t go down there.

Not yet.

He came forward, his hand reaching for my breast, his grip surprisingly aggressive as he squeezed.

“Fuck,” I cursed under my breath, the unexpected pain and the underlying thrill sending a jolt through me.

His hand went to the delicate fabric of my nightgown, not particularly removing it, but rather ripping one side open with a sudden, violent tear.

 An aggression that made my core clench, a strange heat pooling low in my belly and then his warm mouth covered my left breast, his lips latching on, sucking hard. My eyes fluttered closed in that instant, and I instinctively dug my fingers into the soft silk sheets, squeezing and dragging.

He rolled his tongue over my nipple, the sensation sending a shiver down my spine.

 My breath hitched in my throat, a strangled gasp escaping my lips.

 He pressed further, his hand fumbling with my other breast, still covered by the remaining fabric of my nightgown, while his tongue savored the sweetness of the exposed one.

“Fucking hell, yes,” I moaned, the words a plea for him to continue.

His hand that had been fumbling moved down to my thighs, spreading my legs wider, drawing them up towards my chest until my knees were bent.

“Spread your fucking cunt for me,” he growled, his voice low and thick with lust, the raw demand sending a fresh wave of heat crashing through me.

I was so wet, achingly wet, and the sound of his voice, the sheer possessiveness in his tone, only amplified the sensation.

He raised his head, his dark eyes locking onto mine, and then he slid a finger inside me, slow and deliberate. I shook slightly, adjusting to the sudden invasion, and multiple moans ripped through me, involuntary and raw.

His gaze didn’t waver, his eyes intense.

I stared back at him, biting my lip hard as he slowly withdrew his finger and brought it to my lips, making me lick the slickness from his skin.

I was completely naked now, exposed and vulnerable under his intense gaze. He stood up, his eyes raking over my body, and a confusing mix of emotions  desire, anger, humiliation again boiled within me.

The feeling so utterly being  exposed, so completely at his mercy, even though a part of me craved his touch was what I hated so much.

“I’ll be leaving for a few days,” he said abruptly, his voice devoid of emotion like he hadn’t just touched me right here and now.

“Someone will be assigned to you.” And then he turned and left, not looking back, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

I practically jumped off the bed, my legs still shaky, and scrambled to get dressed before Misa came back in.

A wave of self-loathing washed over me.

Just moments ago, I had been crying over someone’s death, terrified of my own fate, and the next, I had been a trembling mess under his touch, my body betraying my fear with a shameful, undeniable desire.

I hated myself for the weakness he so easily elicited.