"Going to keep you pregnant. Keep you full. Keep you mine."
***
"I want to go for a walk," I announce at breakfast. "Alone. Just around the grounds."
He doesn't even look up from his coffee. "No."
"I just need an hour—"
"No."
Frustration flares. "I'm not your prisoner!"
His eyes snap to mine. Ice-blue and hard. Then he's moving, out of his chair and on me in seconds. He backs me against the wall, one hand around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. Claiming.
"Yes," he says softly, voice deadly. "You are. My wife. My property. Mine. And you don't get to go anywhere without me. Ever."
"That's insane!"
"That's reality." His grip tightens slightly. "You want to know what happens if you try to leave? If you try to run? I'll chase you down. I'll drag you back here. And then I'll fuck you until you can't walk. Until you can't even think about leaving again."
My breath catches. I'm furious. But, I'm also impossibly turned on. My body is a traitor, responding to his dominance even as my mind rebels against it.
"You want space?" he continues, reading my arousal clearly. "Too bad. You're mine. You don't get space. You get me. Always."
He releases my throat, but only to grab my hips and spin me around. My palms hit the wall as he yanks down my sleep shorts.
"Since you want to test me," he growls, "let me remind you exactly who's in charge."
He takes me against the wall. Hard. Claiming. His hand fists in my hair, holding my face against the plaster while he drives into me from behind.
"This pussy is mine," he grunts with each thrust. "This body is mine. You are MINE. Say it."
"Yours," I gasp.
"Again."
"I'm yours!"
"Good girl." He reaches around to rub my clit and I come screaming, my body clenching around him. He follows immediately, groaning as he fills me once again.
After, he holds me against the wall, both of us panting. His hand slides to my stomach, possessive as always.
"You don't get space,malyshka," he says against my ear. "You get me. Always me. Accept it."
***
On day seven, he takes me to Wolf's Den for a monthly Bratva meeting.
"Do I have to go?" I ask nervously as he helps me dress. He picked the outfit—a fitted black dress that shows my curves but covers most of the marks. Most, but not all. The hickey above my collarbone is deliberately visible.
"Yes." He zips up the back, his fingers lingering. "You're my wife. They need to see you. See my claim on you."
"What if—"
"What if what?" He turns me to face him, cupping my jaw. "What if someone looks at you? What if someone says something? What if someone makes you uncomfortable?"
I nod hesitantly.
