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Marble tiles span the vast floor, leading to a glass-encased shower that is larger than my small bedroom back home. Gleaming faucets reflect the dim lighting from above, casting a golden glow on the double vanity. It’s a room designed for luxury and indulgence, yet it feels like another prison.
Milo shoves me inside without care, following close behind and leaning against the sink basin, arms folded. He gestures toward the toilet, his eyes slicing through any notion of privacy or dignity I might have clung to.
“Can you…” My voice trails off at his icy glare, a warning that requires no words. I hurry to the toilet, every movement a reminder of my bruises, my battered body protesting the simplest of actions. The stitches pull at my shoulder, a searing pain that competes with the dull throb of the rest of my wounds from my scuffle with them in the underground games.
When I’m done, Milo’s gaze remains fixed ahead, offering me a sliver of privacy I hadn’t expected. I move to the sink, hands trembling as I turn on the faucet and catch sight of myself in the mirror—bruised, bloodied, and broken.
A gasp escapes me as I take in the damage. The bullet hole in my shoulder looks like an angry mouth sewn shut with crude stitches under the clear tape. My hair is a tangled mess, streaked with drying blood. This reflection isn’t me; I’m far too pale and look far too defeated, despite my defiance.
Dried blood cracks with every flex of my fingers, remnants of a struggle I can still feel in my bones. My mind wanders to Dad and Emma; are they safe? Are they looking for me? The thought is a small ember of hope, quickly doused as Milo’s voice brings me back to my cold reality.
“You can shower if you like,” he says, his eyes scanning me like I’m a job to be done.
“Thrilling prospect,” I sneer, “but I’d rather not get naked with you here.” It’s a lie—I’d kill for a hot shower—but not under his watchful eye.
I’m about to turn toward the bedroom door, only to freeze as Leone’s deep voice cuts through the tense silence. “You’ll shower,” he commands, his presence filling the doorway.
My heart skips a beat in fear. A woman scurries past him, stripping the bed of the ruined sheets. “Maria, can you have the cook make Fallon something to eat? Those eggs will be no good once she is out” Leone orders without taking his eyes off me.
“Of course, Mr. Pressutti,” she replies, ducking her head and exiting swiftly with the linens in her arms. I rub my arms, suddenly aware of the chill in the air—or is it the chilling effect of these two men?
Milo moves past me, turning on the shower, the sound of cascading water mocking my longing for normalcy. When I don’t move, paralyzed by the gaze of the dark-eyed man before me, Leone gives an imperceptible nod to Milo.
Milo tries to undress me, but I pull away quickly, not wanting his touch. “Fine, just don’t touch me,” I snap, trying to mask the quiver in my voice.
I cringe as I try to undo the buttons on my shirt, my one-handed fumbling futile.
Leone steps closer, and I stumble backward into Milo’s solid frame. His hands find my hips, steadying me, but it’s no comfort. I shudder as his fingers undo the buttons, his gaze watching his hands move over my shoulder making me realize how small I am next to him. Using my one good arm, I clutch the fabric to my chest in an attempt to maintain a shred of dignity when Leone suddenly crouches, gripping my underwear with a look that dares me to protest while Milo snatches the shirt from me tossing it aside.
FIFTEEN
FALLON
I stand frozen as Leone slides my underwear down, his brown eyes locked onto mine—a silent command to comply and step out of them.
“This doesn’t need to be difficult, Fallon,” he says, his voice low, dangerous.
But everything about this is difficult. Everything about this screams against the very fiber of who I am. Yet here I am, yielding to their demands because what choice do I have?
Milo’s warmth presses against my back, prying my arm away from my chest as he removes the sling. I grip Leone’s shoulder, stepping out of the underwear, and he rises, towering over me. Sandwiched between them, I am painfully aware of their power, their physicality—muscle and flesh honed for intimidation and control. I don’t stand a chance against them.
Leone inclines his head toward the shower. “Milo will help you shower,” he says, his eyes lifting to Milo’s behind me. I glance at Milo over my shoulder. He lifts his arm behind his head, gripping his shirt and tugging it off. I step away from him, only to bump into Leone. Cornered, I can only stare at Milo’s muscular, tattooed body.
He undoes his belt, his gaze on me as my eyes trail over his body. He undoes his pants and lets them fall, and I gulp at the size of him.
“Get in the shower,” Leone orders, and I can’t help but think that even the water will feel like another set of hands on me—hands that aren’t mine, hands that I don’t want.
With a ragged breath, I step into the shower, letting the steam cascade over me, trying to ignore the heat of Milo’s gaze on my skin. It’s a shower, nothing more, but it feels like another layer of myself being stripped away, claimed by these men, by this life I never asked for.
“Turn around,” Milo instructs, his voice a low rumble behind me… And I do because what else is there to do? The steam clouds my vision, but I’m acutely aware of the space Milo occupies, his presence a force that commands attention even without touch. The shower’s roar fills my ears as he steps in behind me, our bodies separated by mere inches and hot vapors.
“Lean your head back,” Milo instructs, and his hands—unexpectedly tender—find their way into my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp with careful movements. His gentleness throws me, clashing with the hard lines of his body. It feels… good.
“Arms up,” he says next, and I comply as best I can, the shoulder with the gunshot wound protesting any movement. He lathers soap over my bruised skin, washing away the dried blood and dirt.
About ten minutes later, the bathroom door opens, and Leone’s voice cuts through the humid air. “Food is here.” His words show no warmth, only the cold expectation of obedience. He sets down towels with mechanical precision, his dark eyes skimming over us before he exits.
I shiver despite the scalding water, knowing that whatever reprieve Milo’s comforting touch has offered, it’s temporary. Here, mercy is a type of currency, I cannot forget that these moments of tenderness are just part of their game.
