Page 18 of Cruel Heir

“That’smyroom,” he says with a frown, as he carries me towards the stairs. “I let you sleep there last night, since it was our wedding night, and you deserved the rest. But your room is across the hall. So Ican get to you easily whenever I want, of course, but still have my privacy. It’s how things used to be done—the old ways, and I think some of those are better. Your father would likely agree. Or doesn’t he keep his wife elsewhere, so he only has to see her when he pleases?”

A cold shock goes through me at the realization that Andre knows enough about the private details of my family to know that my stepmother lives in Rome. From the way his gaze hardens as he says it, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, I know it was meant to inform me of just that. That I have no idea how much about me he really knows.

“Anyway,” he continues, carrying me up the stairs and to the door across from the room I stayed in last night. “My cum would be all over your thighs by the time you walked up here, instead of inside of you, where it should be. Of course, I could keep my cock inside of you for the rest of the day—but I have things to do,principessa. As much as I would like to stay buried in you, I can’t give youeverymoment of my day.”

He pushes the door open, carrying me to the huge bed, and setting me down on the embroidered floral duvet. “Stay here,principessa,” he murmurs, smoothing my hair away from my forehead as he leans down to brush a kiss over my lips. “Take a nap, perhaps. And afterward, the mansion is yours to enjoy as you wish.”

Andre turns away as if to leave, but halfway to the door, he turns, that steely expression in his eyes again. “Just remember, Lucia, you can’t leave. Go wherever you like in the house and on the property, but don’t even try to escape. You’ll be caught immediately. And you won’t like the consequences.”

And with that, he turns, striding out of the room.

7

LUCIA

The moment Andre leaves, I burst into tears.I have to get away,I think to myself, curling onto my side atop the bed, staring at the room that is now—apparently—mine.I have to get a message to my father somehow.It’s been less than twenty-four hours, and Andre has already figured out how to leverage my desires against me.I can’t bear it, I think as I lie there, tears dripping down my cheeks.

The problem is that I have no idea where we are, exactly—how far from my father’s home Andre’s mansion is, or what means I could use to get a message to him. The only thing I can think of is to ask Celeste, and I know I would be putting her in danger if I did.

Wouldn’t she understand, though?I bite my lip, trying to think it through. It seems wrong to ask that of her—but she could always say no. And lying there, looking around the lavishly furnished room, I can’t think of any other option. If I stay here, I’ll end up pregnant with Andre’s child. And he’ll make me enjoy it, every time—make me beg for him to give me pleasure, too—until I won’t be able to live with myself when it’s all over.

Despite the emotional turmoil—or maybe because of it—I do fall asleep for a little while. When I wake up, I can still feel his hands onme, the insides of my thighs sticky with his cum, and I desperately want a shower. I sit up, rubbing my hands over my face, and look around the room that I’m going to be staying in.

For all that I don’t want to be here, it is a beautiful room. The furniture is all cream-colored, painted wood with gold accents, the bedding white and blue, with another of those expensive patterned rugs across the wooden floor next to the bed. There’s a tall wardrobe and dresser, a vanity and bookshelf, and a velvet wing chair with an ottoman and a soft-looking blanket tossed over it. The curtains are velvet with a gauzy inner set, and I can see from the dimming light outside that it’s late afternoon. I slept for a long time.

Cautiously, I get up and pad over to the wardrobe and closet. I don’t know what I’m meant to do about clothes—a quick inspection of my dress’s skirt tells me that it’s unwearable without being laundered, and maybe not even then. It’s stained with Andre’s cum in a number of places. While he seems bent on embarrassing me whenever possible, I think continuing to wear this where I could be seen might be beyond even him. But when I open the closet, my mouth nearly drops open.

It’s full of clothes. Dresses of every imaginable style for every occasion—everything from sundresses to soft knit sweater dresses, cocktail gowns, and evening gowns for galas, every possible style and color that I could imagine. Every single one of them is designer, the tags still attached, and I feel slightly dizzy when I look at them all. Jeans and pants are folded on the shelf above them, and there are rows of shoe boxes below. When I turn to look through the drawers in the wardrobe, I find sweaters carefully folded, blouses hung up side by side with nightgowns and other lingerie, and drawers of panties, t-shirts, tank tops, and clothes for me to sleep in. There’s a staggering amount of clothing, totaling up to more than I could possibly imagine Andre having spent if I weren’t looking at the evidence right in front of me. I find it hard to believe, even so. The only thing I don’t find are bras, likely because he couldn’t have found outthatinformation, and I expect he prefers me without them anyway. I’m small enough that I don’t necessarily need them tostay decent, even if I would prefer it—especially in this circumstance.

Numbly, I reach for a pair of jeans and a soft, loose cashmere sweater, setting the clothes on the bed as I strip off the silk slip dress I was wearing and let it drift to the floor. A chill runs over my skin as I stand there naked, and I hurry into the adjoining bathroom, turning on the shower as quickly as I can. The bathroom is almost as large as my bedroom—with heated tiles, I realize as I curl my toes against the warm floor—another of those standing bowl sinks, and a large soaking tub.

I step into the shower, letting out a sigh as the hot water splashes over me, rinsing away the feeling of Andre’s touch. I tell myself as I scrub clean that I won’t give into it again, that the next time he fucks me, I’ll pretend not to enjoy it, that I won’t let him know even if I do want to come. But as I wash away the traces of his cum between my thighs, my fingers graze over my clit, and the shudder of pleasure that goes through me tells me that that’s easier said than done.

I never knew sex could feel good at all, let alonethisgood. No one ever mentioned it to me. All of the focus was always on the men, on what a good mafia wife was expected to let her husband do, that giving him an heir was the most important thing of all. No one ever, even for a moment, suggested to me that I might like it so much that I would crave it—that even a man I hate could make me ache for his touch. And I wish, desperately, that someone had.

Maybe then I would have been prepared. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so lost.

I pile my wet hair up in a loose bun when I get out, slipping into the clothes I brought into the bathroom with me. I feel a little better once I’m dressed in something that covers most of me—and with panties on. I can see from my reflection that I still look pale and frightened, but I resolve to spend the rest of the afternoon looking around the mansion, trying to get some sense of where I’m living. Andre did, after all, say that I could have the run of the place as long as I don’t try to leave.

Celeste is standing in the bedroom when I step out, picking mydress up off of the floor. My face flames red instantly, knowing she must see the stains on it—or if she doesn’t, she will soon.

“You can just throw that away,” I blurt out, feeling as if I could sink into the floor with embarrassment. That’s something else no one ever talked to me about—how to deal with the maids seeing the evidence of what husbands and wives do. Between last night and today, Celeste has had to remake the bed Andre fucked me in, after seeing me laying naked in it—and now she’s holding my cum-stained dress.

Celeste frowns at me. “Are you sure? It’s probably expensive—” She breaks off, her cheeks turning a little pink, too. “But of course, you know that already, miss—I mean, Lucia. If that’s what you want.”

“Please.” I look at the red silk in her hands, unable to stomach the thought of wearing it again. “Just get rid of it.”

Celeste looks at me for a long moment, and I think I see something like a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “Alright,” she says quietly. “I’ll throw it out.”

“Thank you.” That small bit of understanding gives me the courage to ask the question that I thought of earlier. “Do you—do you think you could help me get a message to my father? Do you know where we are—how far we are from the Fontana estate?”

Celeste’s eyes widen. “Lucia,” she breathes, so startled that she forgets to trip over the informality. “You can’t do that. If Don Leone finds out—”

“He’s notDon Leone,” I snap, and Celeste recoils instantly. I feel a stab of guilt, realizing that she must have been spoken to harshly dozens of times in this house, physically hurt, even. I soften my voice, trying to push back the fear.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur. “He’s not really what he pretends to be. His family—my father did something to them. He’s trying to get revenge through me. But he’snota don.”

Celeste lets out a slow breath. “Whether he is or isn’t,” she says slowly, “it doesn’t really matter to me. What matters is what he will do to you if he finds out that you’ve tried to contact your father.”

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