Page 24 of Claimed Through Deception

But this Livia does nothing. She takes a breath, lowers her head, and picks the pan back up.

Marta walks into the kitchen, carrying a clipboard. She looks at Livia’s soaked apron.

"Change your apron, Livia. You look sloppy," Marta says coldly, completely ignoring Gia’s instigation. "And scrub the baseboards in the east hallway before noon."

Livia nods mutely.

Up on the balcony, my hand grips the mahogany railing so hard the wood groans. An urge claws at the back of my skull. I want to walk down those stairs, grab Gia by the throat, and throw her out of the front gates. I want to fire Marta. I want to burn the kitchen down.

I force my fingers to uncurl. I force my feet to stay planted on the marble.

I do nothing.

I watch Livia untie her wet apron, her face completely blank, entirely devoid of the fire that usually burns in her eyes.

I am a selfish, sadistic bastard. I know exactly what I am doing. I am letting them tear her down. I am letting the staff isolate her, demean her, and make her feel entirely alone in a house full of people. I want her to freeze in their hostility so that when I finally offer her warmth, she has no choice but to take it.

I want to be her only sanctuary.

I turn away from the balcony and walk back to my study.

This thing I have for her is mutating. It is no longer just a physical urge to dominate her. It is an addiction. I find myself tracking her movements through the estate cameras when I should be reviewing shipping manifests. I know exactly how many sugars she puts in her coffee. I know she limps slightly on her left foot by the end of a twelve-hour shift.

I am losing my fucking mind over a maid.

I am sitting behind my desk in the study, a stack of contracts spread out in front of me. The only light in the room comes from the heavy brass lamp on my desk and the glow of the fireplace.

The double doors are open. Livia walks into the study.

She has a feather duster in her hand. She stops in the doorway when she sees me behind the desk. She thought the room was empty. Her posture instantly goes rigid, her eyes darting to the floor.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I can come back."

"Stay," I say.

I don't look up from my paperwork. I can feel her hesitation before she slowly moves toward the towering bookshelves lining the far wall.

She begins to dust the leather-bound spines. She moves quietly, efficiently, her back to me.

I stop reading.

I sit in the leather chair and just watch her. I watch the way the black uniform hugs the curve of her waist. I watch the soft sway of her hips as she reaches for a higher shelf. She stretches, the hem of the dress riding up an inch, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her upper thighs.

A heavy, aching heat pools in my groin.

"Livia," I say.

She freezes. The duster stops moving.

"Yes?" she asks, not turning around.

"Come here."

She lowers her arm. She turns, her face carefully blank, and walks across the Persian rug. She stops at the edge of my desk, exactly where I told her to stand three days ago.

I close the file in front of me, push my chair back and stand up.

I walk around the side of the desk. I don't stop. I step directly into her space, crowding her, forcing her to tilt her head up to keep me in her line of sight.