He pauses. His gaze sharpens, brow furrowing as he studies the way I’m shivering, the ragged stutter of my breath. He touches my cheek, and I flinch, heat rising to my face.
“You’ve never?” The question is barely more than a whisper, spoken close enough that I feel it rather than hear it.
I force myself to nod, once, a tiny movement. I can’t meet his eyes.
A long silence stretches out. His hand drops from my face. I risk a glance up, bracing for mockery, for scorn. Instead, his face is unreadable: tension in his jaw, eyes narrowed, something almost like disbelief or regret flickering through him. He draws a slow, unsteady breath.
For a moment, I see the predator become something else. A man worshipping a miracle or cursing a fate.
He leans closer, so close his lips graze my ear. His voice is raw, guttural, vibrating with something that makes my skin burn.
“No one will ever touch you,” he murmurs, each word deliberate, heavy as a promise. “Not now. Not ever.” It’s a vow, a threat, a line drawn in blood.
I don’t move. I can’t. The room tilts, the air thick with candle smoke and the taste of my own fear. He touches me again, slower this time.
His palm settles on my bare shoulder, thumb brushing the hollow at my throat. He’s careful, every motion measured, like he’s tracing a boundary only he gets to cross. I feel owned, remade—his touch is both branding and benediction, searing into my flesh and mind.
I wait for brutality, for the sudden snap of violence, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his hands move lower, tracing my ribs, my waist, his fingers pressing in just enough to remind me of his power. He tilts my chin up again, makes me hold his gaze.
“You’re mine,” he says, voice deep, hypnotic. “Every part of you. You understand?”
I swallow hard, anger and shame tangling inside me. I want to spit at him, to claw his face, to remind him I’m not a thing to be possessed.
The heat in my belly betrays me. My body responds to his touch, to the dangerous edge in his voice, to the way he looks at me like I’m both conquest and prize. My breathing goes shallow, my heart thundering. I despise myself for it. I cling to my fury, to the hate I feel for him, even as my skin tingles where he touches me.
He slides the dress from my hips, leaving me bare but for a slip of lace. He pushes me gently back onto the bed, covering my body with his own—not crushing, but inescapable, a living weight. He kisses me. It’s not soft or sweet, but slow and claiming, his mouth relentless against mine. I bite his lip, a desperate act of defiance, and he laughs, low in his throat.
“You want to fight me?” he asks, voice dark with amusement. “Fight. I want to feel it. I want you wild.”
His hand slips lower, possessive, and my body arches against him—hating it, needing it, every nerve a live wire. The world narrows to the heat of his skin, the press of his mouth, the way he takes without asking but never forces pain. He murmurs things in Russian I can’t understand, words that sound like sin and sanctuary, like damnation made flesh. I shudder, hating the way I respond, how the sound of his voice coils heat low in my belly. I’m furious at myself, at him, at the world that led us here.
He moves with that deliberate, brutal patience I’m beginning to recognize as his own. His fingers trace my thigh, leaving prickling trails behind. My body’s betraying me—my breath coming short, my back arching, desperate to escape and desperate to feel more all at once. He smiles, the shadow of a smirk tugging at his mouth, and his hand slips between my legs, testing the slick heat there with a possessive press of his palm.
“You like this,” he growls, voice rough as gravel, teeth flashing as he watches my face twist. “You pretend you don’t, but your body doesn’t know how to lie to me, Bella.”
The sound of my name on his lips makes my skin prickle. I try to pull away, but he pins me, powerful thighs caging me in, his hand cupping me through lace.
I glare at him, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them. “Get off me.”
He laughs, the sound low and pleased, like a man savoring a victory. “No. You want to fight, fight me.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties, dragging them down with slow, humiliating care. He takes in every inch of me, the way I squirm, the flush crawling up my chest. “You want it rough?” he whispers, voice so close I feel it in my bones. “Say it.”
I dig my nails into his shoulders, raking red lines down his back. “Don’t think you can break me.”
He pins my wrists above my head, forcing me down against the pillows. He’s heavy, inescapable, but it’s not the crushing weight I expected—it’s grounding, a force I can rail against.
“Who says I want to break you?” he murmurs, mouth brushing my jaw, my throat. He bites me there, just enough to sting, just enough to leave a mark. “I want you wild. I want to feel you fight.”
I snap at him, biting his shoulder, and he hisses, a grin cutting across his face. “That’s it,” he says, eyes dark and hungry. “I want you to hate me for this. I want you to remember it was me.”
He pushes my legs apart, and suddenly his cock is pressed against me, hard and hot, and I gasp, not from fear but from the sudden, animal anticipation. He takes his time, drawing it out, rubbing against me until I’m shuddering, my pride dissolving into need.
When he finally thrusts inside, it’s slow, merciless, forcing my body to open for him. My breath stutters—pain and pleasure fusing into something jagged and sweet.
“Fuck,” I gasp, hands clenching in the sheets. My hips buck against his, defiant. “Is that all you’ve got?”
He laughs, sharp and breathless. “Be careful, little bride,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “I haven’t even started.”
He pulls out almost to the tip, then drives in again, harder, his hands braced on either side of my head, caging me in. He sets a punishing rhythm, hips slamming into mine, the bed creaking with every thrust.
