Paradox of Deceit

Chapter 8: Still Wet

A V A

I slammed the door shut behind me and leaned back against it, exhaling like I’d just escaped a warzone.

Technically, I had.

A warzone dressed in a damn tuxedo with a voice that dripped poison and pleasure in equal measure.

Ethan Martino.

Fucking monster.

My legs were sore, my thighs ached in a way that had nothing to do with a workout and everything to do with the stupid ice cube still feeling like it was slowly melting inside my core. I hated that I felt it. Hated that I couldn’t stop feeling it.

Each cold drop that leaked from that stupid cube was a slap to my pride. A reminder of what he did. Of how he left me.

Not broken.

Not used.

Just... undone. On the edge. On his terms.

I hissed under my breath, forcing my knees not to buckle as I stalked into the room, my steps uneven from the damn discomfort lodged in the most intimate place imaginable.

I scanned the walls, the corners, the lamp, even the stupid decorative vase in the corner. Every creak of the floorboards under my boots made me twitch.

Paranoia wasn’t my thing. But being inside a mafia king’s mansion, after being tied up and iced, kinda changed a person.

My fingers brushed under the desk, along the dresser edges. Nothing obvious, but I knew better. Men like him didn’t rely on the obvious.

I bent slightly, wincing at the shift in pressure down there. Still sore. Still wet. Still fucking humiliated.

He enjoyed that.

I could see it in his eyes when he walked away. Left me tied, burning, trembling—and he just walked.

He wanted me to beg. He wanted me to snap.

Guess what?

I don’t break that easy.

I sat on the couch for a while. Not moving. Not thinking. Just… breathing. Or trying to.

I tugged at the silk nighty clinging to my skin—stupid thing felt like a second betrayal. Too soft. Too delicate.

I hated how it slid over the places he’d left buzzing. The worst part? It wasn’t just pain anymore. It was something hotter, messier—something I wasn’t ready to name.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

When I left America, I thought I’d be undercover, not under some psychopath’s thumb. But of course, the universe had to throw in a twist. My dad, in all his brilliance, had taken out a loan from the wrong kind of people. People with names whispered like curses.

People like Ethan Martino.

And when the debt collector came knocking, it wasn’t with threats—it was with an offer. Come willingly, and maybe Dad doesn’t end up with a bullet in his skull. So I did what any daughter-secret-agent-bad-decision-maker would do. I said yes.

Next thing I knew, I was in a damn palace pretending to be a prison, wearing silk like it meant something.

I stood up, ignoring the sharp throb between my thighs, the leftover reminder of what happened just hours ago. No, I wasn’t going to think about that. Not again.

Instead, I walked over to the bed and grabbed my phone, my fingers still a little shaky, but I forced them to still. I didn’t need to feel weak—not now, not in this fuckin place.