What the hell was I doing?

He’d whipped me, humiliated me, then fucked me.

I’d come.

I’d begged him to fuck me harder.

I hated myself.

No, I hated him. I needed to remember that.

Why was it so hard to remember that?

I got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He must have showered recently. Steam still fogged up the corners of the mirror, and the scent of his aftershave hung in the air.

I found I liked it, felt somehow comforted by it.

The devil you know. That’s all that was. I knew Salvatore. I knew his limits.

Fuck. I was fooling myself.

I used the bathroom, not surprised to find blood between my legs even though I wasn’t having my period. He’d fucked me raw, like he said he would.

And you’d come.

I turned my back to the mirror, the dark, crisscrossed welts reminding me to hate him. To see him for what he was: a Benedetti. My enemy.

I touched the raised marks, pressed against them, forced myself to remember that he was my fucking enemy. I could not let myself trust him, let myself depend on him. He would hurt me. Wasn’t this evidence of that?

This strange emotion—no, it was not emotion. Only confusion. I felt confused, but who wouldn’t be if they were me? Isolated from family and under the care—more like under the thumb—of Salvatore Benedetti, I needed him for everything. Every fucking thing. And that was why I had any feeling for him whatsoever. Maybe it was a form of Stockholm Syndrome. I mean, this may not be a traditional kidnapping, but it wasn’t like I was here by choice. Not my choice, anyway.

I turned on the shower and stepped under the hot stream. I wanted to scrub his touch from me. Wanted to scrub the memory of my reaction to him from my mind.

He’d fucking whipped me, and I’d begged him to fuck me.

I scrubbed my hair with shampoo and my body with soap, gritting my teeth when the hot water hit my ass. When I was finished, I climbed out and dried off. I wanted to be out of here. I’d only been told I had to stay the night. Not any longer. But what if his father made me stay? What if Salvatore had already gone? And left me behind.

Panicked, I hurried into the bedroom, found my cell phone in my purse, and dialed Isabella’s number.

“Hello?”

“Izzy?” I was sure I’d woken her. “I’m calling too early. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay. How are you?”

“I don’t know. I’m in Franco Benedetti’s house in the Adirondacks.”

“What?”

Well, that woke her up. “I had to come. It was his birthday. We were required. I just…”

“Are you okay, Luce?”