Page 52 of Covert Desires

Letting your guard down only gets you hurt—how many fucking times do I need to learn this lesson the hard way?

The fucker played me, and I was stupid enough to fall for his charm. I should’ve known he was up to something or another. This was never about a connection.

I sigh heavily.

This isn’t going to work.

I can’t have that delinquent running rampant when the guests come.

I should’ve done this a long time ago, I think, as I punch in J.’s number, my heart beating in my chest.

She answers after the second ring. “Kiah?”

“Hey, so that little Ricci cunt? I know where he is…”

Chapter sixteen

Betrayal

(Nico)

Shoutingmuffledprofanitiesatthe empty room, I continue my fight against the duct tape. But it doesn’t budge. It just hurts my healing shoulder with every futile move.

I can’t believe that bitch tied me up again. I haven’t even recovered from the last time. Fuckingde ja vu.

Kiah better return soon.

She’s been gone for over an hour already.

Where did she go?

I fight until I have no energy left, groaning like a wild beast with little result. It’s no use.

Finally, exhausted, I slump against the column, dropping my head to my chest in defeat.

Outside, the sun claws its way higher.

Still no Kiah.

Gradually, my fury ebbs, seeping from my body like blood from a wound.

As the familiar rage retreats, it leaves behind a hollowness I can't quite name. Regret floods in to fill the void, bitter and choking. But even this remorse is fleeting, a mere ripple on the surface of a much deeper, darker pool.

What remains is the bedrock of my existence: self-loathing. It's always there, a cancer eating away at my core. Every thought, every action, every breath is filtered through its toxic lens.

I clench my fists, feeling my nails bite into my palms. Pain—sharp, immediate—offers a moment's respite from the relentless chorus of self-hatred.

But it's temporary.

It always is.

You’re a fucking idiot, Domenico.

I know I’ve fucked up.

And not just because my balls ache and I’m tied up in the kitchen.

My skin burns with shame, the memory of kneeling before her seared into my mind. Even tied up again, it's not the restraints that make me feel trapped—it's the echo of my own surrender.

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