Naked Confrontation

Lydia's pov

I sat up on the messy bed, holding my breath, waiting for a single word to leave his mouth. He did not answer. He never talked to me. Whenever he had a demand, he relayed his cold instructions through Mr. Vargas, who would then track me down to pass the orders along. I was a transaction. A cheap whore in his eyes. A pathetic low-life unworthy of a direct conversation. I knew I meant nothing to a man of his status, but he could at least give me a basic response. I needed my clothes. How was I supposed to go home without them? He just stared at Vargas for hours on the phone, speaking rapid Italian, but sparing a single word for the woman sharing his bed was too much effort.

He turned his broad back to me and walked into his massive walk-in closet, the heavy door clicking shut. I pulled the ruined silk sheets tight around my bare chest, shivering in the cool air. My core still throbbed. The stickiness between my thighs was a harsh reminder of my place in this dark hierarchy.

Gideon had once told me I should be on my knees thanking the heavens that I was still breathing. He had watched the girls who occupied this bed before me die. They did not last long. They were killed in days, their bodies discarded like trash. I had survived in this cold hell for almost four months. I endured his rough hands, his massive cock tearing into me, and his suffocating silence. Aside from using my body for sex, he ignored my existence.

The heavy bedroom door creaked open. Panic spiked in my chest. I scrambled backward against the tufted headboard, clutching the sheets higher. Then I saw the gentle posture and the familiar graying hair.

"Relax, it's just me, dear," Helena said softly.

My tense shoulders dropped. Helena, the elderly mansion cook, stepped inside. She held a neat stack of clothes in her frail hands. Seeing her brought a rare rush of warmth to my chest. She was in her late seventies and carried a grandmotherly aura that felt out of place in a mansion run by ruthless killers. She was my savior. After my first night in this house, when I lay bleeding, torn open and sobbing from the pain of his relentless taking, Helena had found me. I could not stand. Blood had coated my inner thighs. She had looked horrified, asking if he had forced himself on me. I had shaken my head no, too ashamed to admit I willingly climbed into a monster's bed for money. She did not pry further. Instead, she drew a warm bath, washed the blood and semen from my skin, and brought me fresh clothes. She gave me the motherly comfort I desperately craved since my own mother passed away.

"I washed your clothes," she said gently, bringing me out of my dark memories. Her eyes softened with pity as she placed the folded garments on the mattress. "They were stained with blood."

I stared at the fabric. It was Conrad's blood. Yesterday, Conrad had been shot in the head right beside me. The deafening crack of the gunshot still rang in my ears. The sticky splatter had coated my skin and my clothes. Death and violence painted every corner of this estate.

"Thank you," I offered a small, weak smile.

"Come down when you are done. I will be in the kitchen," she murmured, slipping out of the room.

I needed to wash. If he came out of the closet and found me still lingering, his silence might turn into rage. I pushed the tangled sheets aside and hurried across the cold floor into his pristine marble washroom.

The space was massive, glaringly bright and spotless. The room boasted a giant bathtub that resembled a small swimming pool, a separate steam room, and a towering glass shower. I stopped in front of the huge vanity mirror. My reflection stared back, pathetic and battered. The skin around my eyes was rimmed with red. I tilted my chin up. Angry, dark purple marks bruised the pale skin of my neck. He bit and sucked the flesh, marking his territory, ensuring the bruises never faded before he added new ones. I twisted my hip, looking down at my pale thigh. A fresh, raised red handprint stood out against my skin. Even the slightest rough touch left a dark mark, broadcasting his ownership.

I opened a side cabinet and found an unopened toothbrush. Using his personal items felt dangerous, like breaking one of his silent rules, but I needed to get the sour taste of fear out of my mouth. He had never punished me for using the washroom before. I ripped the package open and brushed my teeth fast, keeping one ear tuned to the door.

After rinsing, I stepped into the glass enclosure and turned on the shower. Hot water blasted over my head, pasting my hair to my skull. I grabbed the soap and scrubbed my skin raw. I washed the sweat from my shoulders, the lingering scent of his mint and musk from my neck, and reached down to wash my pussy. The hot water stung the sore, swollen lips. I cleaned his thick semen from between my thighs, scrubbing until I felt clean again.

I turned the brass handle. The water stopped. The steady drumming against the tiles faded into silence.

I pushed the glass door open, water dripping from my bare breasts and down my legs, and turned around to grab a towel.

A sharp gasp ripped from my throat. I flinched hard, my bare back slamming against the wet glass.

He was there.

He leaned casually against the marble vanity counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. He wore a tailored black suit, pristine and intimidating, ready for a day of running his dark empire.

Panic locked my lungs. My heart hammered against my ribs. How long had he been standing there? I had locked the door. How did he get inside without making a single sound?

His piercing blue eyes flicked to the stack of clean clothes resting on the far edge of the counter near his elbow, then dragged slowly over my dripping body. He stared at my bare breasts, the water tracing down my stomach, and the wet curls between my thighs. He missed nothing. A dark smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. I made no move to cover my nakedness with my hands. There was no point. He had tasted every inch of my skin. He had spread my legs and shoved his cock deep inside me. I had nothing left to hide.

"I am sorry," I mumbled. My voice shook. "I wanted to clean myself. I won't do it again."

I took a slow, submissive step toward him. I needed my clothes. I needed to get out of this room.

I reached a trembling hand toward the counter. Suddenly, his large hand shot out. His long fingers clamped around my bare arm.

I flinched hard.

He yanked me forward. My wet, naked body slammed against the rough wool of his expensive suit. The breath left my lungs in a rush. I stood frozen against him. His size dwarfed me. He raised his free hand, his calloused fingers brushing against my temple. He gently tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear. The stark contrast between the gentle motion and the iron grip on my arm sent a cold shiver down my spine.

I squeezed my eyes shut. His face dipped closer. His warm breath brushed over my wet cheek, smelling sharply of mint.

"Next time lock the door properly," his deep, gravelly voice rumbled against my skin, dripping with dark promise, "or else I'll fuck you on this counter until you forget your own name."

I swallowed hard. The thick lump in my throat made it hard to breathe. I nodded fast. My voice was trapped in my dry throat, unable to form words. I just wanted to take my towel and run.

I slowly, cautiously raised my shaking hand, reaching past his waist to grab the white towel resting on the edge of the sink.

Before my fingers could brush the cotton, he snatched my fragile wrist. He jerked me forward. My chest hit his suit again.

I whimpered when he harshly grabbed my chin and turned my lips into pout.