Let Rio help you bathe

Fina’s pov

At first, I thought I was dreaming.

Hands moved over me—slow, deliberate, knowing. Not frantic. Not searching. As if whoever touched me already knew every inch of my body and was simply reminding me of it. Fingers skimmed my calves, traced the curve behind my knees, slid higher, lingering at my thighs with a patience that made my stomach tighten.

I shifted in my sleep, a soft sound escaping me before I could stop it.

Then the air changed.

Cold brushed over my skin, sharp and real, slicing through the warmth of the dream. A breeze—night air—slid across my body, raising goosebumps along my arms, my stomach, my legs.

My eyes flew open.

I sucked in a breath so hard it burned.

Darkness greeted me. Not the soft darkness of my childhood room. This was deeper. Heavier. The kind that pressed in on you, thick with silence and secrets.

I lay frozen, heart slamming against my ribs, and then memory crashed into me all at once.

The Severo estate.

The walls.

The silence.

The truth.

I was surrounded by his world now. His men. His name. His future, in the house of a man I was being handed over like a debt.

And I was marrying Don Severo.

My throat tightened.

I pushed myself up slightly—and that was when I saw him.

He sat across the room, half-consumed by shadow, as if the darkness itself bent around him out of respect. His jacket lay abandoned on the floor. His tie was gone. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing bare skin that caught faint light.

One leg stretched out lazily. The other bent. A glass of whiskey hung loosely in his hand, amber liquid catching the glow from the lamp beside him. Smoke curled upward from between his fingers, slow and unbothered.

He looked like he’d been there a long time.

Watching.

Waiting.

“Oh my God—”

The words barely made it past my lips.

His eyes lifted fully to mine.

The chill hit me again—and this time I understood why.

I wasn’t dressed.

Panic flared sharp and humiliating as I looked down. Thin underwear clung to me. Nothing else. My clothes lay on the floor near his feet, crumpled and discarded like they meant nothing.

I remembered going to sleep fully clothed.

Anger surged hot and wild, cutting through the fear. My hands curled into fists as I glared at him.

“You—”

He smiled.

Not wide. Not amused.

Slow.

“Good. You’re awake.”

I swallowed. “Did you touch me?”

He took a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving my face. “You slept beautifully.”

Rage trembled through me. “You had no right.”

He leaned forward slightly. The air shifted with the movement.

“Come here.”

“No.”

The word left me instantly, sharp and defiant—but my heart betrayed me, pounding too fast, too loud.

He tilted his head, studying me like a puzzle he’d already solved. “I wasn’t asking.”

The room felt smaller suddenly. His voice—calm, unraised—carried more weight than a shout ever could.

Images flashed in my mind. His kitchen. His hands. The deal I’d made to protect what mattered to me.

I swung my legs over the bed.

Each step toward him felt like surrender wrapped in defiance. He didn’t move. Didn’t rush me. Didn’t repeat himself. He simply waited, confident I would obey.

When I stopped in front of him, he spread his legs wider.

“Closer.”

My chest rose and fell. I hated that my body listened even as my mind screamed.

I stepped between his knees.

His fingers brushed my thighs—light, almost curious—and I shivered despite myself.

“Sensitive,” he murmured.

Before I could react, he pulled me down onto his lap.

A sharp breath tore from me as I landed against him.

My hands hovered uselessly before settling against his chest, not pushing him away—just bracing myself.

He lowered his head into my neck.

The contact was devastating.

He inhaled deeply, like he needed me. Like my scent filled something empty inside him. His lips pressed to my skin—soft, almost reverent—and my body betrayed me with a trembling inhale.

One hand slid into my hair, fingers massaging my scalp, firm but careful, possessive in a way that made my head tilt back without permission.

I hated how good it felt.

I hated myself more.

“We’re going out tonight wife,” he said quietly, lips brushing my throat. “There’s a party.”

I laughed once, breathless and bitter. “I’m not your wife.”

His mouth stilled. Then he lifted his head and looked at me.

“Yet. But In a few hours,” he said, voice low and certain, “you will be.”

The words sank into me like chains.

“In front of everyone,” he continued. “Friends. Enemies. Men who would kill to take what will belong to me.”

His thumb brushed my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “You.”

I tried to pull back. He didn’t stop me—but he didn’t let me go either.

He stood suddenly, lifting me with him as if I weighed nothing.

“Put me down!”

“Quiet.”

The command was soft. Absolute.

He carried me into the bathroom, steam already filling the space. The tub was drawn, water gently rippling, waiting.

He set me down and began undoing his shirt.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, heat rushing to my face.

“What does it look like?” He shrugged the fabric off his shoulders. “I’m bathing.”

“And me?”

His gaze flicked to mine. “You’re joining me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to go to any party,” I snapped. “I just want to sleep.”

“As much as I want you in my bed,” he replied calmly, “marriage comes with duties. Ten percent of the time, you stand beside me.”

“And if I don’t?”

His eyes darkened. “Then I drag you.”

I believed him.

So I stripped the last barrier from my body and stepped into the waiting water, heart hammering, pride in tatters.

He was left in his underwear now, I looked away as he peeled it off his skin. My neck and face flushed.

I heard him scoff as he entered the tub. “You don't have to look away, you'll see my cock everyday for the rest of your life. Wife.”

I finally found the courage to look at his face. And a huge smirk sat there.

He looked tired. I hated myself for caring. Without shame, he pulled me into him.

“Let Rio help you bathe.”

Later—

The mirror showed a stranger.

Red dress, tight and elegant. Hair pinned high, neck bare. Beautiful in a way that felt like a weapon aimed at myself.

I was staring when I saw him behind me.

Leaning in the doorway. Hands in his pockets. Hair braided back neatly. Watching me like a victory already won.

He crossed the room without a sound and wrapped his arms around my waist.

Our eyes met in the mirror.

“You’ll behave tonight,” he said softly. “Smile. Stand close.”

I swallowed. “And if I don’t?”

His lips brushed my ear. “You’ll learn.”

In that moment, staring at his reflection holding mine, I understood the truth with terrifying clarity.

This wasn’t just a marriage.

It was captivity dressed in silk.