Chapter 5: The Reckoning

Bella’s POV

The safe house feels too quiet after Nico leaves.

The kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums, amplifies every drip from the showerhead, every creak of settling wood, every shallow breath you take while staring at that damning photo on the coffee table.

Victor’s text is still open on my phone. The image hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s burned deeper into the screen—and into me. My own face mid-moan, eyes glassy, lips parted, his hand disappearing under emerald satin like it belonged there. Like I invited it.

I should delete it.

I should smash the phone.

Instead I zoom in.

On the way my head is thrown back against the glass.

On the faint red mark already forming where his fingers dug into my thigh.

On the way my nipples are visible through the wet fabric, peaked and obvious.

My core clenches—betraying me again.

I slam the phone face-down. Stand. Pace.

Nico’s shirt hangs loose on me, brushing the tops of my thighs. Every movement reminds me of last night: the stretch of him, the way he held himself back until I begged, the hot flood of him when he finally let go. My inner thighs are still faintly sticky even after the shower. I can feel the ghost of his tongue, his fingers, his cock.

And now Victor’s voice is in my head again.

“Every time you come from now on, you’ll feel the ghost of my fingers.”

I hate that he’s right.

The steel door buzzes.

Not a knock. A buzz—like someone who knows the code but wants to announce they’re coming in anyway.

My heart leaps into my throat.

Nico wouldn’t buzz. He’d just unlock it.

I back toward the bedroom, eyes on the door.

The bolts slide.

The door opens.

Victor steps inside.

Black overcoat dripping rain onto the concrete. Suit beneath it immaculate—charcoal gray, shirt open at the collar, raven tattoo peeking like always. Hair damp, pushed back. Eyes the color of winter storms locked on me immediately.

He doesn’t speak at first.

Just closes the door. Engages every bolt. Turns the deadbolt with a slow, deliberate click.

Then he looks at me—really looks.

At the borrowed shirt.

At my bare legs.

At the love-bites on my neck that Nico left like signatures.

At the way I’m clutching the hem of the shirt like it can protect me.

His jaw ticks.

“You’re wearing his clothes,” he says. Quiet. Controlled.

“You’re in his house,” I counter. Voice steadier than I feel.

He takes one step. Then another. Slow. Predatory.

“I own half the waterfront properties in this borough,” he says. “This building included. I have keys to every lock. Including the ones he thinks are safe.”

My stomach plummots.

He stops a foot away. Close enough I can smell rain and cedar and that dark undercurrent that’s always made my pulse race.

He reaches out. Fingers brush the collar of Nico’s shirt—then slide inside, grazing the upper swell of my breast.

“No bra,” he murmurs. “No panties either, I’m guessing.”

Heat floods my face.

His thumb circles my nipple through cotton. Slow. Firm. It pebbles instantly.

“You’re still sensitive,” he observes. “He fucked you hard last night. Didn’t he?”

I don’t answer.

He pinches. Just enough to make me gasp.

“Answer me, Bella.”

“Yes,” I breathe.

His eyes darken. “Did you come for him?”

“Yes.”

“Multiple times?”

My silence is answer enough.

He releases my nipple. Steps even closer until our bodies almost touch.

“Did he make you scream?” Voice low. Dangerous.

I swallow. “Yes.”

Victor’s hand slides down—over my stomach, lower. Cups me through the shirt. Palm pressing against my mound. Heat seeps through fabric.

“You’re wet right now,” he says. Not a question. “Thinking about him? Or me?”

I don’t move. Don’t speak.

He presses harder. Middle finger dipping between my folds through cotton. Finding my clit. Rubbing slow circles.

“Both,” I admit on a shaky exhale.

His smile is slow. Cruel. Triumphant.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Honest.”

He walks me backward until my spine hits the brick wall. Cold against my back. His heat in front.

He lifts the hem of the shirt. Exposes me completely.

Looks down at my pussy—still swollen, still glistening, still marked by Nico’s mouth and cock.

Victor drops to one knee.

My breath stops.

He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder. Opens me.

Then he leans in and licks—long, slow, possessive. Tasting what Nico left behind.

I cry out. Hands flying to his hair.

He groans against me. “He filled you well.”

His tongue plunges inside—lapping, scooping, claiming. Then circles my clit. Sucks. Hard.

My knees buckle.

He holds me up with one arm banded around my waist. The other hand joins his mouth—two fingers sliding deep. Curling. Pumping.

“You taste like him,” he growls between licks. “And like you. And like sin.”

I’m shaking. Hips rocking against his face. Chasing.

He adds a third finger. Stretches me. Fucks me with them while his tongue lashes my clit.

“Come,” he orders. “Come on my tongue while you’re wearing his shirt. Let me taste how much you still want me.”

I shatter.

Violent. Loud. Screaming his name—then Nico’s—then nothing coherent at all. Waves crash. Legs tremble. Vision whites out.

He doesn’t stop until I’m sobbing from overstimulation.

Only then does he rise. Kisses me—deep, filthy, letting me taste both of them on his tongue.

He lifts me. Carries me to the sectional. Sits. Settles me astride his lap.

His cock is rock-hard beneath his trousers. Straining.

He unzips. Frees himself.

Thick. Veined. Leaking.

He guides my hips. Notches the head at my entrance.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I do.

His eyes are molten. Obsessed. Heartbroken and furious at the same time.

“I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he says. “I’m not promising to change. But I will never let you go again.”

He thrusts up—slow. Deep. Burying himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke.

We both groan.

He’s thicker than Nico. Different angle. Different stretch.

He holds me still for a long moment. Letting me feel every inch.

Then he starts to move.

Slow rolls of his hips at first. Grinding against my clit with every thrust.

Then harder.

Faster.

The couch creaks. My breasts bounce under the shirt. His hands grip my ass—spreading me wider. Deeper.

“Ride me,” he growls. “Show me you still remember how.”

I do.

I rise and fall. Taking him deep. Clenching around him.

He yanks the shirt up. Over my head. Throws it aside.

Now I’m naked on top of him. Completely exposed.

His mouth finds my breast. Sucks hard. Bites. Soothes with tongue.

One hand slips between us. Thumb on my clit. Rubbing fast.

“Come again,” he orders. “Come while I’m inside you. While you still have his cum dripping down your thighs.”

The filthy words tip me.

I explode around him—clenching, pulsing, milking him.

He follows with a guttural groan. Thrusting up hard. Once. Twice. Flooding me.

Hot. Thick. Mixing with what Nico left.

He holds me down on him. Keeps me seated. Full.

Forehead pressed to mine.

“I love you,” he whispers. Voice raw. “I’ve always loved you. And I’ll destroy him before I let him keep you.”

I don’t answer.

Because the steel door buzzes again.

This time it’s violent—someone slamming a fist against it.

Nico’s voice roars through the metal.

“Open the fucking door, Kane!”

Victor smiles against my skin.

“Looks like round two starts now.”

He lifts me off him—slowly. Sets me on the couch.

Stands.

Adjusts himself. Zips up.

Walks to the door.

And opens it.

Nico storms in—gun already drawn.

Sees me—naked, flushed, dripping both of them.

Sees Victor—smirking, unruffled.

The air turns explosive.

Two men.

One woman.

No more pretending.

The war isn’t coming.

It’s already here.