His filthy, possessive words only heightened the ache, making me even wetter. He thrust the vibrator in and out, building me toward the edge with ruthless precision, until I was a writhing mess of desperate pleas and gasps, the boundaries between hatred and desire dissolving into haze. "Please..." I didn't even know what I was begging for anymore.
At last, he discarded the toy, stripping off his clothes in a frenzy—shirt torn open, pants shoved down, revealing his thick, throbbing cock, veins pulsing, tip slick with precum. He aligned himself, rubbing the head against my soaked folds. "Ready for the real thing?" he taunted, then pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch.
I bit back a cry of pain as he stretched me, the burn intense, my body resisting the invasion. But even through the discomfort, something primal shifted—my hips rose instinctively, welcoming him deeper, my walls clenching around him. "Fuck, so damn tight," he groaned, holding still for a moment to let me adjust, though not for long.
My nails dug into his back, raking down his spine, leaving angry red trails. He grinned, savage and delighted. "Yeah, that's it—mark me. Show me how much you crave this." His thrusts intensified, slamming harder and deeper, the bedframe creaking under the force. The wet slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, mingling with my moans and his guttural grunts. He adjusted his angle, hitting that perfect spot with every punishing stroke, driving me toward oblivion.
Sweat-slicked bodies moved in frantic rhythm, the air thick with the musk of sex and lingering cigar. I hated him, but God, the way he filled me, claimed me—it was all-consuming. His mouth returned to my neck, sucking dark bruises, murmuring filthy endearments. "Take every inch, Noelle. This pussy belongs to me now."
The ferocity mounted, emotions tangling in a storm of hate, lust, and vengeance. But suddenly, my breath caught, a familiar constriction gripping my chest. Asthma. Damn it, not now. My vision darkened at the edges, breathing turning shallow and labored, my facepaling to a sickly blue as panic flooded in. Desperately, I reached for the nightstand, fumbling blindly for my inhaler.
Kholod didn't notice at first, too lost in the heat, driving into me with deep, relentless thrusts. But then he felt my body tense, heard the wheezing rasp. "Noelle?" He pulled back, eyes widening in alarm as he saw me gasping, hand scrambling. He snatched the inhaler from the drawer—somehow knowing exactly where it was—and pressed it into my trembling fingers.
I grabbed it frantically, inhaling deeply like my life depended on it, the medicated mist surging into my lungs. It triggered a violent coughing fit, tears and sweat streaming down my face in a chaotic mess. I looked utterly wrecked, gasping and shuddering in the aftermath.
A flicker of something like heartache crossed his eyes, perhaps even remorse. He leaned down, gently brushing soaked strands from my forehead, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Breathe, Noelle. Slow and easy. I've got you." His thumb stroked my cheek tenderly as I coughed and gradually steadied my breaths.
Once the attack passed, my breathing normalizing, he shifted, still buried inside me, hard and insistent. "We can continue now."
I lashed out instinctively, my foot kicking up and connecting with his groin—not enough to seriously injure, but enough to make him grunt in pain. "You bastard!"
He winced but let out a dark, rumbling laugh. "Feisty as ever. Looks like you're eager for more." Brushing off my protest, he resumed his movements, but gentler this time—slow, languid thrusts that stoked a different kind of flame. His hands caressed rather than restrained, lips grazing mine in unexpectedly soft kisses. The tenderness was disorienting, clashing with everything I knew of him.
We built toward climax together, unhurried, until ecstasy crashed over us—me tightening around him in waves, him spilling deep inside with a low groan. As he collapsed beside me, he drew me into his arms, whispering against my ear. "You can't die. In my world, you don't have that privilege."
Chapter Four
Noelle
Kholod Morozov... a demon.
Every inch of my body ached as if it had been crushed. I gritted my teeth, cursing him a thousand times over in my mind.
The bed beside me was empty, bearing only the impression of where he had lain. The air still carried that scent of cedar and tobacco, silently reminding me of every moment from last night.
I had actually been beneath my father's killer...
I squeezed my eyes shut, refusing to recall how my body had betrayed me. Those shivers when he touched me, the uncontrolled moans—all of it filled me with deep self-loathing.
A maid slipped into the room soundlessly. Seeing I was awake, she bowed her head respectfully. "Ma'am, hot water is ready. A bath will help you feel better."
With her support, I endured the soreness and made my way to the bathroom. When the warm water enveloped my body, my tense muscles finally began to relax. That's when a familiar fragrance drifted over—sweet with a hint of bitterness.
My eyes snapped open. I watched the maid dripping essential oil into the tub. There was no mistake—that scent dissolving into thewater was my favorite from home. An obscure Italian artisan brand that almost no one knew about.
This couldn't be a coincidence!
That devil of a man had inflicted the cruelest violence upon me, then turned around and offered this barely perceptible "consideration" in the most bone-chilling way. Did he know every detail about me?
After the bath, much of the physical pain had eased. The maid dressed me in an understated cotton dress—simple in design but exquisite in cut and fabric, soft against my skin. She tried to cover the marks on my neck with makeup. I refused.
"Don't bother. Leave it."
The maid hesitated, then nodded respectfully. Under her guidance, I made my way to the dining room.
Two people were already seated at the table. Anastasia was elegantly sipping tea, dressed in a dark purple high-necked dress, her hair pinned back without a strand out of place. Even at home, she maintained an impeccable appearance. Anya was lazily flipping through a French fashion magazine, her red-painted nails casually skimming the pages.
The head chair sat empty, announcing the master's absence.
