Page 31 of Stalking Ginevra

Gil nods and steps away to relay the orders. I scan the courtyard, watching traumatized guests huddle in groups. Some are injured, others are splattered in blood. Armed guards stand watch, looking more menacing than the assassins.

This is a public relations nightmare.

Just as our family stands on the brink of reclaiming power, assassins transform our house into a battlefield. Tomorrow promises a shit show of media spin, damage control, and tightened security.

Once everything’s under control, I plan to work through my frustrations with Ginevra.

TWELVE

GINEVRA

“Strip.”

The command slices through my nightmare, jolting me awake. My eyes snap open, locking onto the visor of my stalker.

My heart slams against my chest. How the hell did he find me at Martina’s apartment? I went straight there from work after Mom told me she’d be out all night with Bossanova, advising me not to wait up. Moonlight streams through the windows, illuminating his imposing form. It might be my imagination, but tonight he seems even more menacing.

“What do you want?” I whisper, trying to stop my voice from trembling.

He yanks off the comforter, leaving me exposed to the cool air. The neckline of my nightgown gapes open, baring my breasts, and the hem has ridden up to my waist. Tension coils around my throat. I may as well be naked. I thought changing locations would solve my problems, but it’s backfired.

“Take off that Scrooge nightshirt and get naked,” he hisses.

Heat rises to my cheeks, and a flush spreads down my neck. I would tell him this isn’t my usual night attire, but why the hell do I need to impress a stalker?

When I don’t immediately comply, he pulls out the knife. The light streaming through the window glints on its blade, sparking a surge of unwanted arousal. I didn’t escape one abuser to succumb to another.

My pussy clenches, already flooding with moisture. If I don’t resist, this man will turn me into a no-limits degradation slut. Before I know it, I’ll start begging him to do worse.

“No,” I reply.

He tilts his head, which would look comical if the movement wasn’t accompanied by his knife slicing down the front of my nightshirt.

“What did you say, little Ginny?”

I grind my teeth, trying to stop them from chattering. “You heard me. I refuse to play your games.”

He laughs through that infernal helmet with so much dark amusement that his chest heaves. I can’t tell if he’s bulky or thin beneath all that armor. All I’ve seen of him is that humongous cock.

“Very well.” He withdraws the knife.

My stomach flips, and my heart sinks a little at this anticlimax. Maybe Martina was right and it really is as easy as saying no. Or maybe this is the calm before the meltdown. I stiffen, waiting for him to yank my hair by the roots, slap me across the face, or bully me into submission, but he slides the knife back into a holster on his thigh.

Every instinct itches to ask why he’s given up so easily, but I clamp my mouth shut. This is what I want, isn’t it? For my stalker to leave me the hell alone.

Turning his back, he retreats toward the door and places his gloved fingers on its handle. I lean forward, my pulse fluttering.

Is that all?

A small, treacherous part of me doesn’t want him to leave. That dark kernel of my psyche aches for the stalker to persist. It’s the same part that still stings from being perpetually rejected—first by a fiancé who placed me on an impossible pedestal, then by another who made me feel unworthy.

Not to mention Benito brushing off me yesterday like I was insignificant.

I lower my head, loathing myself for this pathetic longing. It’s pitiful to want to feel desired, even if it’s by a weapon-wielding maniac who revels in my degradation.

“Let’s see the color of Martina’s blood,” he growls.

Cold shock punches me in the gut, making me scramble off the bed. I race across the room and grab his arm. Up close, he’s imposing. Broader than both my former fiancés. At the thought of Benito’s cold dismissal, I pluck up the courage to press my body against his side.

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