I push inside her in one slow, claiming thrust, watching her face twist—pain, pleasure, rage. She bites down on my shoulder to keep from crying out, hands fisting in my shirt. I move, deep and rough, the kind of pace that leaves no doubt who she belongs to. Each thrust is a warning, a promise, a confession I’ll never say out loud.
She clings to me, breath hot against my ear. “Is this what you want?” she spits, voice choked, desperate. “To ruin me where anyone could walk in?”
“Let them,” I grind out, hands braced on her hips, holding her exactly where I want her. “Let them hear you scream for me.” The words are a threat and a plea.
She meets every thrust, her body arching, fighting me and herself with every nerve.
Her nails rake my back, a matching violence to the rhythm I set. Her eyes burn into mine, fury and want tangled so tight there’s no space between.
“You think I’m yours?” she pants, gasping as I slam into her. “You think you own me?”
“I do,” I growl, burying my face in her neck. “You just won’t admit it, stubborn woman.”
She laughs, low, broken, dangerous. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Her words goad me; I fuck her harder, hips snapping, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the empty room. She bites my neck, daring me, and I answer with my teeth, marking her where only I’ll see. The red dress bunches around her waist, the silk torn and twisted, her legs locked around me, driving me deeper.
It’s not gentle, not sweet. It’s rough, desperate, a war neither of us is willing to lose. The pleasure builds, sharp and overwhelming, hunger burning through every inch of me. She moans high and guttural, the sound ripped from her throat as her body clenches around me, shuddering, fighting and yielding all at once.
Her walls clench around my cock as the orgasm takes over. I feel her shudder beneath me, hands scrabbling at my shoulders.
I curse, losing myself in the heat, in the way she pulls me closer, wanting me even as she denies it. I come with her name on my lips, my hands cradling her face, her body shaking in my arms.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the rasp of our breathing, the wild beat of my heart. I hold her, forehead pressed to hers, lost in the wreckage we’ve made of each other. She’s trembling—anger, confusion, aftershocks of pleasure—and I know I’ve crossed a line I’ll never return from.
I set her down gently, helping her steady herself. She turns away, fixing her dress with shaking hands, refusing to look atme. I button my shirt, watching her from the shadows, unable to find the words I should say. I never apologize, and I don’t now.
Isabella cleans herself up in silence. Then she walks out, head high, red dress rumpled, eyes shining with something I can’t name. She doesn’t look back.
As the door clicks shut, something in my chest tightens. For a man who’s conquered everything, I have never felt so owned.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Isabella
The next morning, I wake to bruises pressed into my thighs, the red ache of last night blooming under my skin. I feel it everywhere; between my legs, along my throat, in the small of my back where he pinned me to the wall and made me shatter in his arms. My body remembers everything, every rough touch, every desperate whisper in the dark.
I hate him for it, but I hate myself even more for the way I wanted it, for the way some part of me aches to feel it again.
I wash until my skin burns, scrubbing away the scent of him, the fingerprints he left behind. I can’t erase the memory: his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that could break him.
I’m disgusted with myself for enjoying any of it, for the low, secret thrill I can’t quite choke out. I wrap myself in a robe and sit at my vanity, staring at my own face. My eyes are rimmed red, mouth bruised, a stranger’s reflection. I wish I could undo it all, turn the clock back to some softer, safer version of myself.
I keep to my rooms for most of the day, avoiding the halls, refusing breakfast, refusing lunch. Every time I hear his footsteps, I freeze. I don’t want him to see me like this—shattered, confused, raw from the war inside me. I drift through the rooms like a ghost, hugging the shadows, trying to outrun the memories of his hands and the taste of his name on my lips.
By afternoon, I can’t hide any longer. The house is too small, the air thick with unsaid things. I pass him on the stairs, our eyes meeting for the briefest instant. I flinch, my heartthudding. He opens his mouth, maybe to apologize, maybe to taunt, but I walk faster, refusing to let him in.
Later, I find him waiting for me in the library, his posture tense, gaze fixed on the floor.
“Isabella,” he says, voice low, trying to sound calm, but there’s a ragged edge beneath. “We need to talk.”
I shake my head, backing away. “No. We don’t.”
He moves closer, hands loose at his sides, trying not to look threatening. “Last night—”
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t talk about last night. Don’t act like any of this is normal.”
His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. “You’re not a prisoner, Isabella. Not anymore.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Aren’t I? I can’t leave, Emil. I can’t breathe in this house without you or your guards watching me. You touch me when you want, you use me when you want, and I let you…” My voice cracks, shame curdling in my chest. “I let you.”
