Page 16 of Claimed Through Deception

I walk out of the observation room and push through the heavy metal door of the interrogation room.

Miller snaps his head up, annoyed by the interruption. The annoyance instantly vanishes, draining the color completely from his flushed face. He straightens up so fast he nearly knocks his own chair over.

"Leave us," I command.

"Yes, sir," Miller chokes out. He doesn't grab his files. He doesn't say another word. He practically scrambles past me, pulling the heavy metal door shut behind him.

Livia slowly turns her head.

Her wide, exhausted eyes travel up the length of my dark, custom wool suit, past my broad shoulders, until they lock onto my face.

The recognition is instant. The air completely leaves her lungs.

"It’s you," she whispers.

I don't speak immediately. I take my time. I walk slowly around the edge of the metal table, her eyes track my every movement, wide and frantic like a cornered animal.

She pulls her arms against her chest, the heavy metal handcuffs rattling sharply against the bolt anchoring them to the table. It is a pathetic, desperate attempt to shield herself from my gaze.

I stop right in front of her.

I want her to feel my authority. I want her to understand exactly who holds the keys to her cage. I reach out, grab the edge of the cold metal table, and hoist myself up, sitting casually on the edge of it.

I am directly in her space. My heavy thighs are inches from her bare, bruised knees. The physical difference between us is staggering. I am six-foot-four of unrestrained muscle. She is tied to a desk in a thin t-shirt.

I lean forward, intending to inspect the red, angry welts the handcuffs have dug into her delicate wrists.

The moment my hand moves toward her, Livia violently recoils.

She throws herself backward with such sudden, desperate force that the metal chair scrapes loudly against the concrete. Her breath catches in a sharp, panicked gasp. Her eyes squeeze shut, her shoulders hunching inward as she turns her face away.

She is bracing for the hit.

She thinks I am going to fucking strike her.

My hand freezes in mid-air. The dark, possessive triumph inside my chest shatters, instantly replaced by a sickening plunge in my gut.

She doesn't see me as a savior. She doesn't see me as human. In this moment, with my shadow eclipsing her, she sees only a massive, violent monster preparing to hurt her. A rare, unfamiliar crack forms in my control. I hate it. I hate it with a violent, visceral hatred that she places me in the same category as the monster who ruined her childhood.

I slowly lower my hand.

I don't force the contact. Against every possessive, dominating instinct roaring in my blood, I respect the boundary. I slide off the edge of the metal table, taking a step backward to give her oxygen.

"Open your eyes, Livia," I say. My voice is low, stripped of its usual harsh command. "I am not going to hit you."

She doesn't open them immediately. Her chest heaves with rapid, jagged breaths. Slowly, her dark lashes flutter apart. She looks at my hands, resting safely in the pockets of my trousers, before looking up at my face. The terror is still there, swimming in the depths of her irises, but the immediate panic begins to recede.

"What are you doing here?" she breathes, her voice shaking. "Are you a cop?"

A dark, humorless laugh escapes my chest. "A cop? No."

"Then why did they let you in here?" she asks, her brow furrowing in desperate confusion. "Why did that detective run away from you?"

"Because he knows exactly who I am," I answer, holding her gaze.

I step to the side, leaning my shoulder against the cinderblock wall.

"My name is Niccolò Severato," I state, the syllables rolling smoothly off my tongue.