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I swallow hard, searching for a semblance of humanity in a man I know has none. “And what if I don’t want that?” I challenge.
Leone chuckles darkly beneath his breath, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of my neck. “You may not want it now,” he whispers, his warm breath sending shivers down my spine. “But soon enough, you will crave it. Besides, it’s not like you have a choice.” He punctuates his words by pushing the thin fabric aside, his fingers finding their way inside me and I bite back a hiss, my core tender from the gun he forced inside me. Despite this, my inner walls grip him tightly, as arousal betrays my anger. My glare meets his gaze as he forces his fingers deeper, a devilish smirk playing on his lips. His thumb finds my clit, applying just enough pressure to send an electric jolt through my body.
“You may fight it,” Leone growls in my ear, his voice dripping with desire. “But I can feel how wet you are for me.” He leans closer, his lips grazing mine. “We’re going to have so much fun, mia bella,” he whispers huskily before his fingers move with a rougher urgency, intensifying the sensations coursing through me.
“Don’t,” I choke out, my voice raw as I try to resist him, and yet, my body betrays me. He drives me crazy with this touch; his fingers have a fire burning a trail inside me, setting off an avalanche of emotions. It’s not just the sensations but his commanding presence that eats at my resolve. I can tell he relishes the hatred I feel towards my own traitorous body.
His other hand finds its way to my breast. His breath is hot on my collarbone as he nibbles and sucks the tender skin there.
The bed creaks under our weight as he puts his knee between my legs, while I struggle against the restraints, unable to deny the heat growing inside me. My body responds despite every fiber in my being resisting. “Let me go,” I pant, wanting him to end this torment but also needing more of it. Leone’s fingers work their magic, finding some spot I didn’t know existed and sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through every inch of me.
“You’re mine now,” he whispers, his breath warm against my skin as his lips trace a fiery path along my jawline and collarbone. “Mine and Milo’s.” The mention of his friend, the thought of Milo also claiming me, sends a conflicting thrill through me, intensifying the desire that Leone’s touch has ignited. I remember Milo’s gentler demeanor, how his presence doesn’t instill the same deep-seated fear that Leone does. Still, the fear is there—subtler, quieter, but undeniable.
As I clench around his fingers, I bite my lip to stifle a moan. It’s confusing—how can such a vile act, from a man I should despise, ignite such fire within me? I hate Leone for what he represents, for the danger and ruthlessness he embodies. Yet, I cannot deny the raw physical response his proximity provokes.
And Milo—sweeter, but no less dangerous. If I were forced to choose, if some cruel twist of fate made me pick between the devil and the silent stalker, I would choose him. Perhaps because with Milo, the edges of fear are slightly dulled, not as sharp as with Leone. Maybe because, deep down, Milo, with all his quiet intensity, might possess a sliver of mercy. Perhaps not enough to save me, but maybe enough not to destroy me outright.
Of all the vile, disgusting things I thought Leone would do… Why does he have to do this? I can hate him all I want, yet I can’t deny the way he sets my body ablaze.
“That’s better,” he coaxes as he thrusts his invading fingers inside me, stretching me. My body betrays me further as I arch my hips upward in silent invitation—repulsion and arousal war within me as I fight to control my mounting pleasure.
His thumb moves quicker, circling my clit, making my walls clench around his fingers. “No, no, please,” I beg softly. This couldn’t be happening, not with him, not like this. I try to clamp my thighs shut, but it only makes him push harder and faster.
His breathing picks up in pace as I feel myself getting closer to the edge. I don’t want to want it, but I do. I feel myself building just when he pulls his fingers from me abruptly and leans back, a cruel smirk on his face as he denies me release. Without another word, he walks away, leaving me panting and aching, the aftermath of him still tingling on my skin and I can still feel his fingers inside me.
“Sleep, Fallon. You’ll need your strength,” he laughs before turning off the lights. Leaving me with just the slivers of daylight through the closed drapes, my thoughts, and the humiliating arousal he just ignited in me.
FOURTEEN
FALLON
The stiffness in my limbs reminds me of the long hours I’ve spent handcuffed to this cold, unforgiving bed. Each minute stretches into agony, not just from the metal biting into my wrists, but from the need to relieve myself that grows more insistent with each passing second. The discomfort is nearly unbearable, intensifying my sense of vulnerability.
Just as the solitude and silence of the dim room begin to claw at my mind, amplifying my fear of being alone, the door creaks open. The sound slices through the oppressive stillness, a minor relief to the heavy quiet to which I’ve grown so accustomed. Being restrained immobilizes me physically and traps me with my anxieties, leaving me to wrestle with the looming dread of abandonment and the endless dark. Something I’ve spent years dealing with after we escaped my Grandmother’s, and it’s been one day or night, I am unsure, but they’re already threatening to unravel me.
It’s Milo who steps in. He carries a tray in his hands. The clink of cutlery against porcelain is loud in the silence. He places the tray down and surveys my body, his gaze skirting over me before finally locking eyes with me.
“Do you have any allergies to food?” His question slices through the tension, unusually caring considering the situation. They chain me to a bed yet care to ask about food allergies?
I shake my head, the bitterness in my voice seeping out uncontrollably. “Even if I did, anaphylaxis sounds like a better option than the one I’ve been presented with.” My glare shifts from him to the ceiling.
Milo ignores the venom in my words and moves closer. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as he takes a seat beside me. He scoops up a forkful of scrambled eggs, the steam rising into the air.
“You act like this is a death sentence,” he observes calmly, extending the fork towards me.
“Isn’t it?” I scoff.
My body tenses. The anticipation of conflict is almost as excruciating as the need to empty my bladder. But instead of anger or force, there’s a pause. He watches me silently, which I find more unnerving. The seconds stretch on, filled only with the sound of our breathing and the distant noise of the city beyond these walls that are both my prison and apparently my new home.
Milo’s expression doesn’t flicker, the stoic mask firmly in place. “No, and you should be grateful he didn’t kill you; he doesn’t show mercy much, or at all usually,” he states, his voice devoid of warmth.
“Grateful?” The word feels like ash on my tongue. I tilt my chin up defiantly. “This is mercy? Being handcuffed and told your only purpose is to warm the bed of not one but two strangers who don’t care if my family and I live or die? That seems pretty cruel to me,” I snap, my furious gaze meeting his unflinching one.
He sighs, the sound heavy with something I can’t decipher. His hand moves, cool and steady, as he brings the fork closer to me. Despite the situation, despite the gnawing fear and anger, my body betrays me with its basic needs. My stomach grumbles, an embarrassing acknowledgment of my hunger.
“Open up,” he commands softly, the edge of a demand lacing his tone. It’s clear he won’t let this back-and-forth continue indefinitely, so for now, I obey.
I part my lips reluctantly, only because I’m afraid he’ll stab me with the fork if I refuse. As I chew, I can’t help but feel the absurdity of it all.
