Page 77 of Ruthless Arrangement

This wasn’t just rough sex like these last few days. Today was something else entirely, a demonstration of power that went beyond physical domination. The calculating coldness in his eyes when he flipped me over, the precise way he applied pressure, knowing how much would hurt without leaving lasting damage.This wasn’t passion; it was methodical.

I reach for the soap, lathering it between trembling hands. As I wash, I catalog every mark, every ache, not just as evidence of what happened, but as data points in understanding Nico Varela. The man I thought I was manipulating revealed something primal tonight, something beyond the controlled exterior he typically presents.

Even now, the journalist in me takes notes.

My throat feels raw from his squeeze and sounds I don’t remember making. I close my eyes under the spray, trying to process all the sensations still going through my body. Behind the soreness and discomfort lurks something more complicated, a response I’m reluctant to acknowledge.

There had been moments, brief, disorienting flashes, when pain transformed into something else. When his controlled brutality had triggered responses in me, I never knew existed. When I’d found myself pressing toward rather than away from his punishing grip.

That realization is more unsettling than any physical discomfort.

I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting water run down my back. “You can handle this,” I mutter to myself. “You’ve been through worse.”

Have I, though?The question floats unbidden.

I shut off the water with more force than necessary, wrapping myself in one of his soft towels.Who am I? The ambitious journalist? The scheming seductress? The willing participant in whatever just happened on that bed?

All of them, I decide.And yet, somehow, none of them.

Back in the bedroom, Nico sleeps soundly, his face relaxed in a way it never is while conscious. I study him from the doorway, this man who just dismantled me piece by piece. In sleep, he looks almost vulnerable, a dangerous illusion.

I know what I have to do. Retreat isn’t an option, not with Moretti’s threats hanging over my head, not with my mother’s safety at stake, not with the story of a lifetime still unfolding. I’ve ventured too far into the labyrinth to turn back now.

No, I need to be smarter. More strategic. The game has escalated, and so must my approach.

I move to the dresser, retrieving a t-shirt. The soft cotton slides over my marked body, falling to mid-thigh. I could sleep on the couch, part of me wants to, but that would be a tactical error. Instead, I slip back into bed, careful not to touch him.

The mattress dips as I settle in, and I stiffen as Nico stirs beside me. His eyes remain closed, but his voice, thick with sleep, fills the darkness.

“Your lip is split.”

I touch the tender spot where he bit down too hard earlier. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” His eyes open now, focusing on me with surprising clarity for someone just waking. “You’ll need to conceal it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I keep my voice neutral, though my heartbeat quickens.

He shifts onto his side, studying me in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “We have an event. Private gathering at the club. International interests. High-profile.”

My mind races.An event means witnesses, visibility, information.“What kind of event?”

“The kind where appearances matter.” His fingers reach out, brushing my swollen lip with unexpected gentleness. “This won’t do.”

I resist the urge to flinch away, forcing myself to remain still under his touch. “I’ll handle it.”

“See that you do.” His hand moves from my lip to my hair, stroking it with deceptive tenderness. “You’ll need to look the part.”

“The part of what, exactly?” I dare to ask.

His smile in the darkness makes my stomach clench. “My companion. My chosen partner. The woman with exclusive access to my world.”

The word ‘exclusive’ hangs between us. It’s what I wanted, access no other journalist has obtained. But the price keeps rising.

“I’ll have something appropriate delivered for you to wear,” he continues, his hand now trailing down my neck to my shoulder, tracing the outline of bruises he left there. “Something that covers these. For now.”

The implication being that next time, perhaps, he won’t be so considerate.

“What am I walking into, Nico?” I ask, steadier than I feel. “Who will be there?”

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