Page 15 of Power
“Get off me!” I thrash, but it’s useless. He’s stronger and faster. His weight presses me into the bed and my breath stutters.
“Behave.” His voice is calm, almost bored.
The click of metal snaps through the room, and I realize, too late, what he’s done.
Handcuffs.
Cold steel bites into my wrist as he chains me to the bedpost.
I go still, my pulse hammering. “You son of a—”
He slaps the side of my thigh, hard.
Shock floods my system and my skin burns where his palm landed.
I gasp, torn between fury and something different, something I refuse to name.
He leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “You’re not going anywhere, princess.”
Then he straightens and, for the first time, offers something that almost resembles kindness—an introduction.
“My name is Dario Bellini,” he says, his tone casual, like we’re at a dinner party instead of a fucking basement prison. “And you, Vittoria, exist on my terms now.”
Then he’s gone, just like that, leaving me breathless, humiliated, and cuffed to a fucking bed.
The stillness stretches for what feels like hours on end. My chest rises and falls too fast, my mind racing to make sense of what just happened.
Then, like a dam breaking, the tears come.
I hate it. Hate that I’m crying, hate that I’m weak enough to let this get to me. But the fear, the confusion, the sheer helplessness of it all—it drowns me.
My wrists ache against the cuffs as I curl into myself and let the darkness take me.
***
When I wake again, the room is different.
It is brighter. Warmer. The walls are bare, painted in a muted gray, the furniture minimal—a bed, a small wooden dresser, a chair tucked neatly in the corner. A single window cuts into the far wall, revealing nothing but a stretch of dense trees, their branches shifting with the wind. There's no sign of a road, no rooftops, no landmarks. Just isolation.
Food sits on the small table. A plate of pasta, still steaming. A bottle of water. And next to it, neatly folded, a set of clothes.
I stare at it, my stomach twisting.
A peace offering?
No.
A leash.
I swallow hard, my throat raw, and force myself to sit up. My wrist aches where the cuffs dug into it, but at some point, he must’ve unlocked them.
I rub at the sore skin, then look back at the food. My stomach growls, traitorous.
I shouldn’t eat. Shouldn’t accept anything from him.
But hunger doesn’t give a damn about pride.
I reach for the fork, hesitating, before stabbing into the pasta and shoving a bite into my mouth. The taste of garlic and butter coats my tongue, and I hate how good it is.
