Chapter 3: The Safe House

Chapter 3: The Safe House

Bella’s POV

The rain has turned the city into a black mirror. Streetlights fracture across wet asphalt, headlights smear like wet paint, and every red light feels like a warning we’re ignoring.

Nico drives with one hand on the wheel, the other still resting high on my thigh—fingers splayed, thumb tracing idle, possessive circles over the sensitive skin just inside where the slit of my dress ends. He hasn’t said a word since we left the garage. The silence isn’t empty; it’s thick, electric, vibrating with everything he didn’t do in that parking space.

I should speak. Should ask where we’re going. My apartment is twenty minutes in the opposite direction. Instead I sit with my legs slightly parted, letting his hand stay where it is, letting the heat of his palm seep through satin into bare skin. My body is still humming from the orgasm he ripped out of me against his car. Every bump in the road sends aftershocks rippling through my core.

He takes the exit toward the Brooklyn waterfront instead of the bridge.

“Nico—”

“Quiet.” One word. Low. Final.

I swallow. My pulse kicks harder.

He turns down a narrow service road lined with darkened warehouses, then slows in front of a nondescript brick building with blacked-out windows and a single steel door. No sign. No buzzer. Just a keypad that glows red when he kills the engine.

He gets out first. Rounds the car. Opens my door. Offers his hand.

I take it.

His grip is firm as he leads me through the rain. Water slicks my hair, darkens the emerald satin until it clings obscenely to every curve. By the time we reach the door I’m shivering—not just from cold.

Inside is nothing like the outside.

Warm amber light spills from recessed fixtures. Polished concrete floors. Exposed brick walls softened by dark leather furniture, a massive sectional that could seat ten, a bar lined with bottles that cost more than my monthly rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows face the East River, Manhattan glittering across the water like a taunt.

This isn’t a crash pad.

This is a safe house built for someone who has money and enemies.

Nico locks the door behind us—three heavy bolts sliding home with metallic finality.

Only then does he turn.

His suit is soaked through at the shoulders, white shirt clinging transparently to the hard planes of his chest. Tattoos bleed through the wet fabric: black roses, coiled serpents, the Moretti family crest low on his ribs. Water drips from his dark hair, tracing slow paths down his neck.

He looks at me like I’m prey that just walked willingly into the trap.

“Take off the dress.”

My breath hitches.

“Nico—”

“I said take it off.” Voice rougher now. “Or I rip it off.”

I should argue. Should demand answers. Instead my hands move to the thin straps. I slide them down my shoulders. The satin whispers as it pools at my feet.

I stand naked except for the delicate gold chain around my neck—the one Victor gave me years ago, the one I never took off. A tiny diamond pendant rests between my breasts, catching the low light.

Nico’s gaze rakes me—slow, deliberate. Breasts. Waist. The trimmed patch between my thighs still glistening from earlier. My thighs, marked with faint red fingerprints where he gripped me against the car.

He steps closer. Doesn’t touch. Just circles me like he’s inspecting something he’s waited years to claim.

“You let him finger you in his penthouse,” he says quietly. “You came apart on his hand while I listened like a fucking dog at the door.”

Shame burns my cheeks. Arousal burns hotter.

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant.” He stops behind me. His breath ghosts across my nape. “You’re still shaking from it. I can smell how wet you are right now.”

He’s right. I can feel fresh slickness coating my inner thighs.

His hands finally land—big, warm, calloused from years of violence. They settle on my hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows above my ass.

“Tell me why,” he murmurs against my ear. “Why him? After everything he did. After he threw you away like garbage.”

“Because he makes me feel small,” I whisper. The truth spills out before I can stop it. “And sometimes… I want to feel small.”

Nico’s grip tightens until it borders on pain.

“And me?” His voice is gravel. “What do I make you feel?”

I turn in his arms. Look up into those dark, tortured eyes.

“Safe,” I say. “And terrified. Because you’re the only person who could destroy me and still make me beg for more.”

Something fractures in his expression.

Then he kisses me.

Not like in the garage—wild, frantic. This is slower. Deeper. Devastating. His tongue strokes mine like he’s memorizing every inch. One hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into wet hair; the other cups my breast, thumb brushing the nipple until it pebbles painfully tight.

I moan into his mouth.

He walks me backward until my calves hit the sectional. Pushes gently. I fall onto soft leather. He follows, knee between my thighs, caging me without crushing.

His mouth leaves mine. Travels down my throat—open-mouthed kisses, teeth grazing my pulse. Lower. He sucks one nipple into his mouth, hard. Tongue flicking. Teeth tugging. I arch off the couch with a broken cry.

The other breast gets the same treatment—wet, hot, relentless.

Then lower still.

He kisses a trail down my stomach. Nips the soft skin above my hipbone. Spreads my thighs wide with rough hands.

“Look at you,” he breathes against my core. “Still swollen. Still dripping. From him. From me.”

His tongue flicks out—once, light, teasing my clit.

I jerk.

He does it again. Slower. Circling. Tasting.

Then he licks a long, slow stripe from entrance to clit. Groans like I’m the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth.

“Nico—” My hands fist in his hair.

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers with his tongue—lapping, swirling, sucking. Two fingers slide inside me—slow this time, stretching, curling. He finds that spot immediately. Strokes it in time with his tongue on my clit.

I’m shaking. Hips lifting. Chasing.

He pins my hips down with one forearm. Growls against me. The vibration sends sparks up my spine.

“Come on my tongue,” he orders. Voice muffled. “Give it to me. All of it.”

I shatter.

Harder than before. Harder than with Victor. My back bows, thighs clamp around his head, a scream tears out of my throat as pleasure rips through me in violent waves. He doesn’t stop—keeps licking, sucking, drawing it out until tears leak from the corners of my eyes and I’m begging him to stop because it’s too much.

Only then does he lift his head.

Lips shiny. Eyes feral.

He crawls back up my body. Kisses me deep—letting me taste myself on his tongue.

I reach for his belt. Fingers fumbling.

He catches my wrists. Pins them above my head with one hand.

“Not yet.”

“Why?” My voice cracks.

“Because the first time I fuck you, Bella, you’re going to be begging for it. Not because you’re angry, not because you’re trying to forget him. Because you need me more than air.”

He releases my wrists. Stands.

Pulls off his soaked jacket. Unbuttons his shirt slowly—revealing inch after inch of inked, scarred muscle. The Moretti crest sits over his heart like a brand. Knife scars crisscross his ribs. A bullet wound dimples his left shoulder.

He’s beautiful. And terrifying.

He shrugs out of the shirt. Kicks off his shoes. Unbuckles his belt—slow, deliberate. The sound of leather sliding through loops is obscene in the quiet room.

His trousers hit the floor.

No underwear.

He’s thick. Long. Already leaking at the tip. Veins standing out. Heavy.

My mouth waters.

He strokes himself once—slow, base to tip. Eyes never leaving mine.

“Bedroom,” he says. Voice hoarse. “Now.”

I stand on trembling legs. Walk ahead of him—naked, dripping down my thighs, his taste still on my lips.

The bedroom is darker—king bed with black sheets, one lamp throwing gold across the room. Rain lashes the windows.

He closes the door.

Locks it.

Pushes me gently onto the bed. Follows. Covers me with his body—skin hot against mine, weight perfect, grounding.

He kisses me again—slow this time. Almost reverent.

“I’ve wanted this since we were seventeen,” he confesses against my mouth. “Every time you cried over him. Every time you slept on my couch. Every time you laughed at one of my stupid jokes. I wanted to take you. Claim you. Keep you.”

His hand slides between us. Guides himself to my entrance.

“Not tonight,” he whispers. “Tonight I just want to feel you. Just the tip. Just enough to know you’re mine.”

He presses forward—slow, careful. The head breaches me. Stretches. I gasp.

“Easy,” he soothes. Kisses my temple. “Breathe.”

Another inch. Then another.

I’m trembling. Full. Aching.

He stops—halfway inside. Forehead pressed to mine.

“Look at me.”

I do.

His eyes are soft for the first time tonight.

“I love you,” he says quietly. “I’ve loved you since before I knew what the word meant. And I’m not asking you to say it back. Not tonight. But I need you to know it before I lose my fucking mind and bury myself so deep you forget anyone else ever existed.”

Tears slip down my temples.

He kisses them away.

Then he pulls out—slowly. Presses back in. Shallow thrusts. Teasing. Torturing.

I wrap my legs around him. Try to pull him deeper.

He resists.

“Not yet,” he growls. “Not until you understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That you’re not choosing between two men.” Another slow thrust. “You’re choosing between a cage made of gold and a life where someone would burn the world down to keep you safe.”

He rolls his hips—grinding against my clit with every shallow stroke.

I whimper.

“Victor will give you luxury,” he continues. Voice strained. “I’ll give you loyalty. He’ll fuck you like he owns you. I’ll fuck you like I worship you.”

He pulls almost all the way out. Pauses.

Then sinks deeper—deeper than before.

I cry out.

“Say my name,” he demands.

“Nico—”

“Louder.”

“Nico!”

He rewards me—thrusting harder. Faster. Still not all the way. Keeping me on the edge.

My nails rake down his back. He hisses. Likes it.

“Tell me you want this,” he growls.

“I want this.”

“Tell me you want me.”

“I want you.” Tears stream. “I want you, Nico. Please—”

He snaps.

One brutal thrust—burying himself to the hilt.

We both groan.

He’s so deep I feel him in my throat. Thick. Hot. Perfect.

He doesn’t move for a long second—just stays there. Pulsing inside me. Letting me adjust.

Then he starts.

Slow at first—long, dragging strokes that hit every sensitive spot.

Then faster.

Harder.

The headboard bangs against the wall.

Rain lashes the windows.

I’m sobbing his name. Begging. Clawing.

He hooks my legs over his shoulders—changing the angle. Deeper. Harder.

“Look at me,” he orders again.

I do.

His eyes are wild. Worshipful. Possessive.

“Come with me,” he rasps. “Come on my cock. Milk me. Take every drop.”

His hand slips between us. Thumb on my clit—rubbing fast circles.

I explode.

Screaming. Clenching. Shaking.

He follows—growling my name like a prayer. Thrusting through his release. Filling me. Marking me.

When it’s over he collapses on top of me—careful not to crush. Still inside. Still hard.

He kisses my forehead. My eyelids. My mouth.

“I’m not letting you go,” he whispers. “Not to him. Not to anyone.”

I don’t answer.

Because across the river, in a glass tower, Victor is probably already planning his next move.

And I’m lying here—filled with one man, marked by the other—knowing the war has only just started.