I look up at the ceiling, tears streaming from the corners of my eyes, and my heart swells with a terrifying, absolute truth: I’ve never been more elated. This violence, this control, this fierce, consuming hunger—it’s the only thing that makes me feel safe. I wrap my legs around his waist, begging him not to stop, not ever.
We climax together, a brutal, synchronized crash that leaves us both shuddering and breathless.
I slide from the table, my legs shaky and weak, the sudden movement causing the silk to fall around me. My cheeks are burning with the sudden, cold return of shame. We’ve just had sex—raw, demanding, exposed sex—in someone else’s house. In a guest room. The sheer recklessness of it is humiliating.
I adjust the dress, pulling the silk tight, desperate to cover the marks he left on my skin. I don’t look at him. I can’t. Without waiting for him, I stumble toward the door and open it.
I leave him standing there, massive and panting, while I make my escape.
The rest of the party passes in a blur. I hardly see Roman until it’s time to leave. The drive home is silent; I stareout the window while he scrolls through his phone, his frown illuminated by the screen’s glow.
As it’s been since the wedding, we share a bed. There’s a wide gulf between us, even though only hours ago we were tangled together like we were trying to destroy each other. Now, he stays on his end of the bed. I stay on mine, pretending not to notice how awake I still am, how every toss and turn makes me more aware of him.
When sleep finally comes, it’s restless.
I dream of cages and grasping hands—reaching, pulling, taking. I wake with a start, heart pounding, only to find Roman’s arm heavy around my waist. His grip is protective, possessive, like even in his sleep, he can feel my fear and refuses to let it near me.
For a long moment, I lie still, listening to his steady breathing. Then, slowly, I relax into him.
And this time, when sleep comes back for me, it’s gentle.
When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. Roman’s already dressed, standing by the mirror, straightening his cufflinks like he hasn’t just spent the night holding me like I was something precious.
I push myself up, the sheet falling around my waist. “Roman. I don’t want to be used as a pawn between you and my father,” I say, my voice still thick with sleep but firm.
He turns, surprised to see me awake, but confused by my words. “What?”
“I don’t want to be used as a pawn between you and my father. I refuse to let you turn my life into another one of your wars, Roman.”
He stills. For a moment, he doesn’t even breathe. Then he shakes his head at me, eyes burning like slow fire.
“You already are,” he says quietly. “But you’re also my wife now. And that makes you untouchable to everyone but me.”
My heart lurches. “But you?”
“Yes.” His gaze hardens. “Only I reserve the right to touch you.”
He starts to walk away, his tone turning brisk, detached. “We’re going somewhere later. Be ready by four.”
Then he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him—leaving me alone with his words echoing in the air like a warning I can’t unhear.
By four on the dot, he comes for me. He’s dressed in black, of course. It’s his uniform. Always tailored, severe, commanding. The same color as the dress he sent up this morning. I’d cursed under my breath when I saw it lying on the bed, a note pinned to the fabric in his slanted handwriting:
Wear this by four.
And I did. God help me, I did. Not like I had a choice.
The dress clings to my body like it was made for me, a silky black sheath that skims my thighs and bares my shoulders. It feels like submission—soft, dangerous, deliberate submission.
Roman studies me silently as I approach, his gaze heavy enough to make my skin prickle. Then he gestures toward the car waiting outside. “Let’s go.”
He holds the car door open for me, one hand on the frame, his expression smooth but sharp-edged. I slide into the backseat, clutching my small purse. Roman follows, and suddenly the interior feels smaller, tighter, like the air’s been pulled out of it.
For a while, there’s nothing but the hum of the engine and the faint scent of his cologne—spice, smoke, something darker beneath. I can feel his attention even when he’s looking out the window. He’s too still. That kind of stillness only comes from something boiling just beneath the surface.
I break first. “Where are we going?”
He doesn’t look at me. “Don’t worry about it.”
