Page 25 of Savage Reckoning
CHAPTER NINE
LEA
The muted clinkof silverware against fine china fills the silence between us. I shift in my seat, wincing as the welts from Nico’s riding crop make their presence known. Each slight movement is a reminder of my humiliation, of how thoroughly he dismantled my attempt to gain the upper hand.
“The Wagyu is exceptional here,” Nico comments, cutting into his steak with surgical precision. He lifts a perfectly medium-rare piece to his mouth, his movements deliberate and refined. “You’ve barely touched yours.”
I force my fork through the tender meat. “I find my appetite isn’t what it usually is.”
“A shame.” His tone is light, conversational, as if he hadn’t left me trembling and desperate just hours ago. “Their chef trained in Kobe for five years.”
The restaurant is impossibly exclusive. One of those places without a sign, where reservations are made months in advanceunless you’re someone like Nico Varela. The lighting is soft and flattering, designed to make everyone look their best while ensuring total privacy. Other diners speak in hushed tones, their conversations a gentle murmur that doesn’t travel beyond their tables.
I take a sip of the red wine he selected, a Brunello. The flavor is rich and complex on my tongue, but I can barely appreciate it. My body is a storm of conflicting sensations. The lingering ache between my legs from being brought to the edge and then abandoned, the sting of the crop marks, and beneath it all, a simmering anger that threatens to consume me.
“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Nico observes, studying me over the rim of his wineglass. “Still processing your... education?”
There’s a hint of smugness in his voice that makes my fingers tighten around my knife. I force them to relax. “Just thinking about the curriculum,” I reply, meeting his gaze. “Wondering what comes next.”
“Anticipation is part of the lesson.” He looks supremely confident, completely in command. His dark eyes hold mine, searching for cracks in my composure. “Though I must say, you’re adapting remarkably well. Most would still fight or beg by now.”
“Perhaps your teaching methods aren’t as effective as you think.”
A flicker of annoyance crosses his face before his expression smooths back into that infuriating mask of control. “Or perhaps I’ve simply found an exceptional student.”
I take a bite of the steak, which is indeed extraordinary, though I can barely taste it through my fury. As I chew, I study him acrossthe table. Nico looks completely at ease, his posture relaxed but still commanding. His white shirt is crisp against his olive skin, the top button undone in a display of casual elegance. The same hands that wielded the crop with such precision now cut his food with the same measured control. And it pisses me off.
But there’s something else there, something I nearly missed. When his eyes meet mine, there’s a flash of heat, quickly suppressed. It’s not just the cool assessment of a man in charge. It’s hunger. Possession.Need.
And suddenly, I spot it. His weakness. It’s still there as much as he’s trying to suppress it.
Nico believes he’s broken me, that I’m now a compliant, if slightly defiant, possession. He thinks the dynamic between us is settled, that his dominance is absolute. But his power comes from being the one who starts, who sets the terms of engagement. He decides when we touch, when we kiss, when we fuck. He determines the rules of the game.
I must change those rules.
If I wait for his next move, his next “lesson,” I’ll always be reacting, always on the defensive. But if I become the aggressor...
I take another sip of wine, letting the idea crystalize. I’ve seen how he looks at me. Beneath that cold, calculating exterior is a man whowants. And wanting is always a vulnerability.
“You’re smiling,” he notes, his head tilting slightly. “Care to share the joke?”
I set down my wineglass. “I was just thinking about lessons, actually. The best teachers are the ones who remain open to learning themselves.”
His eyebrow raises a fraction. “Philosophy over dinner? I wouldn’t have expected that from you tonight.”
“I’m full of surprises.” I let my foot brush against his under the table, a subtle but deliberate point of contact. “You should know that by now.”
Something shifts in his expression, an unmistakable spark of interest. Good. He senses the change but can’t quite identify it. He’s recalculating, reassessing, trying to determine my angle.
“Surprises can be dangerous in my world,” he says, his voice dropping lower.
“Or exciting.” I hold his gaze as I take another sip of wine, letting my tongue catch a drop on my lower lip. “Depends on your perspective.”
The rideback to the lake house is thick with unspoken energy. I sit beside him, deliberately close, our thighs brushing with every curve of the road. Each contact is a jolt, a reminder of the lesson he taught me hours ago. I played the obedient student then, all while analyzing the cracks in his armor. Now, I intend to exploit them. I gaze out at the dark, tree-shrouded roads, feigning distraction, but my pulse is a heavy, steady beat of anticipation.
“You’re scheming,” he says at last, his voice a low rumble.
I turn, letting my expression remain neutral. “I’m processing,” I correct him softly. “You gave me a lot of new data to work with earlier.” My gaze drifts down his body for just a beat too long.
