Page 57 of Claimed Through Deception

"It's okay," I tell the guard, pushing his arm down. I hug her. She smells like stale beer and cheap tequila. It is the scent of my old life, but it brings me zero comfort.

"Where have you been?" she whispers frantically. "The cops raided your place. Marco made a whole bunch of noise, then disappeared too."

"I can't explain," I say, pulling back. I look around the dingy bar. The tacky floors, the unforgiving red lighting. I used to belong here. I used to blend in. Now, I stick out like a sore thumb, marked by the men standing behind me. A guy in a leather jacket at the corner booth stares at me, his eyes dragging down my body with blatant, sleazy hunger.

I realize then that Niccolò was right. The real world doesn't exist for me anymore. I am marked territory.

The bell above the door chimes, and Niccolò steps inside.

He wears a bespoke midnight-blue suit. His eyes sweep the bar before locking onto me.

Then, he sees the man in the corner booth. The guy in the leather jacket is still staring at my chest, too drunk or too stupid to realize the apex predator just walked in.

He doesn't say a word. He walks across the tacky floor, grabs the man by the back of his neck, and slams his face into the wooden table. The sickening crunch of a breaking nose echoes in the silence.

Sofia screams. The guards do not blink.

Niccolò leaves the bleeding man on the table. He walks to me, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with possessiveness. He wraps his hand around my wrist.

"We are leaving," he growls.

He drags me out the front door, pulling me across the pavement toward the waiting Maybach. He opens the rear door, shoves me inside, and climbs in after me.

The door slams shut. The tinted glass seals us in a soundproof vault. The driver immediately puts the car in gear, pulling away from the curb.

Niccolò doesn't give me a second to process the violence.

He reaches across the leather seat, grabs my waist, and hauls me across the console. He drags me face-down over his lap.

"Niccolò!" I gasp, kicking my legs as my chest hits his thighs.

"A man looks at what is mine, and you just stand there," he snarls, his large hand pinning the small of my back to keep me down.

"I didn't do anything!"

"You belong to me," he bites out.

His hand comes down hard against my denim-clad ass.

The smack resonates in the confined space. A sharp, biting sting blooms across my skin, instantly sending a hot rush of blood straight to my core. I cry out, my hands gripping his kneecaps.

He strikes me again. Firmer. The sting deepens, melting into a wicked ache.

"Tell me who you belong to," he demands against my ear.

"You," I whimper, hating the way my body arches upward, chasing the punishment.

He flips me over in a single, fluid motion. I land on my back across the leather seat, my legs dangling off the edge. He looms over me, crowding my space, his broad shoulders blocking the faint streetlights bleeding through the tint.

He unzips my jeans with impatient, ruthless efficiency. He pulls the denim and my cotton panties down my thighs, exposing me to the cool air of the cabin.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his tone shifting from feral anger to a thick lust. "You're soaking wet for me."

I am. I am weeping for him, slick and flushed, my inner muscles clenching in anticipation.

He slips two thick fingers deep inside me.

I scream, tossing my head back against the leather. He stretches me, hitting the exact spot that makes my vision go white. He pumps his fingers in a relentless, dirty rhythm, his thumb circling the swollen nub above.