Page 11 of Claimed Through Deception

She tilts her head up to look at me. Her chest heaves, brushing against my suit jacket. She smells like stale smoke and cheap vanilla soap. It is a terrible combination, but it hits my lungs like a drug. I breathe her in, a heavy inhale that makes her shiver.

"What do you want?" she asks. Her voice is shaking, but her chin is raised.

"You work too hard, Livia," I murmur.

Her eyes widen slightly at the sound of her name. She didn't tell me. I know anyway.

"Get out of my way," she demands.

She brings her hands up, placing them flat against my chest to shove me. I don't move. Her hands stay there, small and pale against my dark shirt. She realizes I am an immovable object.

"You don't belong here," I say, my voice dropping to a low, rough pitch. I look down at her mouth. "You don't belong serving drinks to trash. You belong on your knees for me."

It is a filthy, possessive proposition. It is designed to strip away the pretense.

Livia’s eyes flare. The fear vanishes, instantly replaced by a blinding, violent rage.

"Fuck you," she spits.

She shoves my chest hard, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt. "You think you can just corner me in an alley? You think because you wear a nice suit and carry a gun, I’m supposed to drop to my knees?"

I catch her wrists. My grip is iron. I pin both of her hands to the brick wall above her head. She thrashes against my hold, her body twisting, but I use my weight to press her flush against the wall. Our hips align. The friction sends a jolt of heat straight to my groin.

"You will," I tell her. "Eventually."

"Never," she snarls, her face inches from mine. "I know exactly what you are. You’re a monster. You use your size and money to terrify people. You’re a violent, pathetic thug, just like another man I used to know. I would rather die in the gutter than let a man like you touch me."

The words are meant to cut. They hit a nerve I didn't know I had. The comparison to the man who beat her mother to a pulp makes a muscle tic in my jaw.

I lean in, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

"Your father was a coward who hit women," I whisper with my hot breath against her skin. "I am a monster who slaughters cowards. Do not confuse the two, Livia."

She shudders violently.

I release her wrists and step back, taking the suffocating heat of my body away from her. She sags slightly against the brick, rubbing her wrists where my fingers left red marks. Her chest rises and falls rapidly.

"Stay away from me," she breathes.

I look at her fierce independence, her worn coat, her desperate pride.

Next week, it will all be gone. Next week, she will have nothing left but me.

"Go home, Livia," I say.

I turn and walk away, disappearing into the shadows of the alley, leaving her alone in the cold.

5

Livia

Paranoia has a distinct taste. It tastes like old pennies and stale coffee resting flat on the back of your tongue.

Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. That is how long I have been looking over my shoulder since the alley.

I turn the deadbolt on my apartment door. It clicks into place, but the sound isn't enough. I slide the heavy metal chain across the track. Then, I grab the wooden chair from my tiny kitchen table and wedge the backrest firmly beneath the doorknob. I step back, staring at the scarred, peeling white paint of the door, waiting for my heart rate to drop.

It doesn't.