Page 14 of Devil’s Reign

I hate how effective it already feels.

My bladder presses more insistently, and a frustrated tear slips down to the bridge of my nose. I grind my face into the sheet to wipe it away, refusing to fall apart over this.

Getting up seems like the next logical step, but I quickly realize I’m stuck. No hands mean I’m not able to push myself off the mattress. What follows is a humiliating wiggle downwards until gravity takes over and my knees hit the floor with a solid thud.

Pain flares, sharp enough to sting my eyes. “Fatti sciddicari, Melani,” I mutter. Let it roll off you like water. I suck in a steady breath, then another, and force myself upright.

One of these doors has to be the bathroom. I approach the nearest one, turning my back and straining my arms as far as the cuffs allow. My fingers scrape wood, then metal. Thankfully, it opens easily. I turn around, already bracing for disappointment.

Instead, my breath leaves me. “Bedda Matri.” Beautiful Mother. I’ve never seen a bathroom like this, never even come close to imagining one.

The marble floor is so dark and polished that it reflects the chandelier hanging overhead. A chandelier. In a bathroom! I let out a short breath that might be a laugh, because my brain doesn’t know where to put that fact. The rest of the room just keeps escalating. A freestanding soaking tub sits on a raised platform at the far end, sculpted smooth and deep, with brushed-gold fixtures curved so elegantly they almost feel wasted on something meant for bathing.

Along one wall, a walk-in rain shower stretches behind crystal-clear glass, fitted with multiple jets hidden flush in the stone so water can cascade like a waterfall. As I step inside, soft LED strips embedded in the ceiling shift from cool white to a warm amber, like the room is responding to me.

Opposite the shower, a double vanity spans the space—a single block of onyx, lit from beneath so it glows faintly, topped with twin sinks and tall, beveled mirrors framed in matte black. Even the small details whisper luxury: polished stone trays, silk-lined drawers, heated towel racks with plush white towels.

If only I had free use of my hands to explore properly. The thought sours my momentary awe and drags me back to reality. I didn’t come in here to admire marble and chandeliers. My bladder is at its limit. I make my way to the pristine toilet, turn my back to it, and bend forward to lift the lid with my bound hands. Then I hook my fingers into the waistband of my skirt and do an awkward little shimmy, inching fabric and panties down together. Once they pass my knees, they pool at my ankles.

Relief hits the second I sit, a quiet sigh slipping out as my bladder finally empties. Wiping turns into a contortionist’s nightmare, but somehow I manage.

Getting dressed again, however? Impossible. No matter how much I wiggle, bend, or stretch, I can't do it. My skirt and panties remain stubbornly around my ankles, mocking my efforts. “Vaffanculo,” I hiss and give up.

Naked from the waist down, I leave the bathroom, frustration burning hot in my chest. This is absurd. Degrading.

I pace the length of the room, muttering to myself in a mix of English and Italian as my mind churns. Someone will come to check on the prisoner in the morning. They have to. Which means I need a plan. Not just a vague hope, but an actual, actionable plan.

Step One: Get these fucking handcuffs removed. This isn’t sustainable long-term.

Step Two: Don’t get killed. Even if Vanya won’t let me go yet, I need to stay alive. Be nice to him, even if it physically pains me to do so.

Step Three: Gain access to the rest of the suite. I can’t snoop for information about Luciano if I’m locked in this room. Which circles back to step two—be nice to fucking Vanya.

My mind drifts back to the office with his hand wrapped around my throat, the elevator with his cock pressed to my hip, and my pussy clenches in response. Being nice to him wouldn’t exactly be a hardship if he keeps getting physical with me like that. A dull ache seeps into my legs, then spreads until my whole body feels like a kaleidoscope of soreness and exhaustion. So with a defeated groan, I flop face-first onto the bed, certain I won't sleep a wink tonight.

The click of a door opening snaps my eyes open. Pain follows as I stir beneath the covers, a groan tearing out of me just as the door swings wider and a strange man walks in carrying a tray. The delicious aroma hits me, and my stomach betrays me with a loud growl, reminding me I didn’t have dinner last night.

The man pauses, his brows furrowing as he takes me in on the bed. I must look like hell.

I attempt a small smile, but it probably lands closer to a grimace. He shifts his jacket aside, deliberately showing me the gun holstered at his hip, as he approaches and sets the tray on the table. As if I’m in any condition to pull a stunt right now. My entire body is screaming in agony. I can barely sit up, let alone attack an armed man.

“Smells delicious,” I say hoarsely, then clear my throat. “Thank you.”

He rears back like I just slapped him. Apparently, polite prisoners aren’t in his usual repertoire. He gives a stiff nod and turns to leave.

“Wait!” The word comes out too loud, tinged with a bit of my panic. He stops, looks at me with those same knitted brows, and I try another smile. “I can’t—I can’t eat with my hands cuffed behind me like this.”

I shift to show him, misjudge the movement, and tip sideways with a sharp yelp as pain lances through me. Tears slip down my face as I struggle to sit back upright without flashing him. I’m successful on the third try. When I finally look up, his expression seems a little more sympathetic to my plight.

“I’ll talk to Mr. Petrov,” he says gruffly. “He has the key.” Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the smell of food I can’t reach.

I keep my eyes on the closed door, hope flaring despite myself. A ridiculous wish surfaces—that Vanya might come with the key himself instead of just sending it with the guard.

I squash the thought. It doesn't matter who uncuffs me as long as I’m freed.

8

IVAN