7. Velvet Bruises
890 Words
The room was silent except for the faint tick of the antique clock on the mantel.
Sienna sat perfectly still at the edge of the chaise, her silk robe clinging to her shoulders like a second skin. Her knees were drawn together, her back straight—just the way he liked.
Disobedience had consequences.
Dario paced slowly in front of her, his sleeves rolled up, his watch glinting in the low light.
"You humiliated me," he said calmly, as if commenting on the weather.
She didn't speak. That was part of the game.
"You think I don't see what you're doing. Those little looks. That tension." He stopped in front of her, crouched down to eye level. "But I did. I see everything."
Sienna's throat tightened.
Dario reached out and gently pulled the belt of her robe loose, revealing the bruising already blooming across her ribs and thighs—faint shades of blue and violet painting her like twisted art.
"This is for your protection," he whispered. "So you remember who you belong to."
His hand trailed down her cheek, soft as a lover's touch.
"You're mine, Sienna. Even your sins bleed back to me."
Then came the belt.
Controlled. Methodical. No rage—just cold efficiency, like he was fixing a disobedient pet. When it was over, he kissed her forehead, tucked her robe back over her shoulders like a gentleman, and left the room.
She didn't cry.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her fingers twitching against the bruises. Each one throbbed with memory.
And yet...
They never hurt as much as the ache she felt when Nico looked at her like she mattered.
---
Two days later, she moved through the upscale hotel lobby like a ghost in heels—flawless on the outside, shattered beneath. A scarf covered her neck. Designer sunglasses hid the bruising on her cheekbone.
She was there for a quick charity appearance. In and out. Smile, wave, donate blood money.
But fate wasn't done with her yet.
Because just as she passed the glass elevator, she felt it.
That heat.
That awareness.
She turned—slowly—and there he was.
Nico.
Leaning against the concierge desk, speaking with someone, wearing a black suit like it was built into his body. His eyes lifted as if he'd sensed her first.
Their gazes collided.
And for a long second, everything stopped.
He saw it.
The scarf. The sunglasses. The stiffness in her spine.
His jaw flexed.
She offered no smile. Just a blink. A breath.
And then she was gone—heels clicking away across marble as her heart beat loud enough to choke her. Chapter Seven: Velvet Bruises
The room was silent except for the faint tick of the antique clock on the mantel.
Sienna sat perfectly still at the edge of the chaise, her silk robe clinging to her shoulders like a second skin. Her knees were drawn together, her back straight—just the way he liked.
Disobedience had consequences.
Dario paced slowly in front of her, his sleeves rolled up, his watch glinting in the low light.
"You humiliated me," he said calmly, as if commenting on the weather.
She didn't speak. That was part of the game.
"You think I don't see what you're doing. Those little looks. That tension." He stopped in front of her, crouched down to eye level. "But I do. I see everything."
Sienna's throat tightened.
Dario reached out and gently pulled the belt of her robe loose, revealing the bruising already blooming across her ribs and thighs—faint shades of blue and violet painting her like twisted art.
"This is for your protection," he whispered. "So you remember who you belong to."
His hand trailed down her cheek, soft as a lover's touch.
"You're mine, Sienna. Even your sins bleed back to me."
Then came the belt.
Controlled. Methodical. No rage—just cold efficiency, like he was fixing a disobedient pet. When it was over, he kissed her forehead, tucked her robe back over her shoulders like a gentleman, and left the room.
She didn't cry.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her fingers twitching against the bruises. Each one throbbed with memory.
And yet...
They never hurt as much as the ache she felt when Nico looked at her like she mattered.
---
Two days later, she moved through the upscale hotel lobby like a ghost in heels—flawless on the outside, shattered beneath. A scarf covered her neck. Designer sunglasses hid the bruising on her cheekbone.
She was there for a quick charity appearance. In and out. Smile, wave, donate blood money.
But fate wasn't done with her yet.
Because just as she passed the glass elevator, she felt it.
That heat.
That awareness.
She turned—slowly—and there he was.
Nico.
Leaning against the concierge desk, speaking with someone, wearing a black suit like it was built into his body. His eyes lifted as if he'd sensed her first.
Their gazes collided.
And for a long second, everything stopped.
He saw it.
The scarf. The sunglasses. The stiffness in her spine.
His jaw flexed.
She offered no smile. Just a blink. A breath.
And then she was gone—heels clicking away across marble as her heart beat loud enough to choke her.
- Writer
