Page 20

The stress. The pressure. The constant disappointment and judging gazes—it all became too much. So much, in fact, that fainting felt like the only way out of the chaos.

The drama was a necessary evil. It was the first step in my plan, and she just so happened to be at the center of it all. Ayla would hate me for ruining her reputation. She didn’t give a shit about the wedding; I knew that for sure. However, my actions embarrassed her in front of all those people.

The way her breath ceased, the way her chest heaved rapidly when the truth was revealed, almost made me feel guilty. Almost. She was so ashamed that her head remained lowered until the ceremony was over.

Ronan was hurt, his pride bruised, and in those shallow eyes of his, there was nothing but emptiness. He was speechless, shocked to his bones at the lengths I went just to destroy him. One thing was certain: I’d successfully severed whatever link he had with the Italians.

After what they found out, the Bianchis were pissed; it was clear in the way they glared at the O’Haras like a battle line had been drawn.

I was the one who hijacked their son’s wedding and replaced him at the altar.

But the blame still fell on Ronan O’Hara and his inability to raise his daughter properly.

At least that was what I made them believe.

In the end, Ayla turned out to be more useful to me than I’d thought. She played a big role in my victory, and because of her, the Bianchis were no longer interested in dealing with the O’Haras. I killed two birds with one stone.

I sat on a chair by the window in my room, legs crossed and eyes fixed on the unconscious beauty lying in my bed.

She still wore her wedding dress—untouched by anyone—except for the female doctor who had examined her a while ago.

Ayla was fine and wasn’t in any danger, the doctor had reported to me.

According to her, she just needed some time to rest and she’d be as good as new.

I’d been sitting here for hours, patiently waiting for my new bride to awaken. We had a lot to discuss.

A small groan escaped her lips, accompanied by a gentle wince as her hand darted to her forehead. She blinked a few times, as if trying to determine where she was. Ayla rubbed her temples, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

“You’re awake. Good,” I said to her, calm and gentle.

At the sound of my voice, she sat up immediately, her back against the headboard, her eyes wide with fear and fury. She clenched her jaw, tightening her grip around the sheets as she glared at me. “Where am I?” she demanded, her tone dripping with resentment.

“You’re at your new home,” I replied, my lips curling into a self-satisfied grin. “In case you don’t remember…you’re my wife now.”

She shook her head, seething in silence. In her mind, she’d probably killed me multiple times already. “Why?” The word fell off her mouth, a little above a whisper. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Oh, please, don’t be dramatic. It wasn’t that deep,” I said, my tone cold and dismissive, just so I could get under her skin.

“It wasn’t that deep?” She scoffed in disbelief, her brows rising reflexively. “You fuckin’ ruined my life, Sergei, and I demand to know why!” she barked, lips trembling.

There she is. There’s the fighter I’m looking for .

Her eyes burned with fury, her face contorted in a frown that did little to mask her beauty. I’d missed that fiery gaze and the shadow of darkness I always saw in her eyes. Looking at her was like staring at the monster she’d once locked away.

“I’ll give you three reasons why I did what I did.” A faint smirk broke out on my lips. “First,” I began, watching her closely, “it was a tactical move—a coordinated attack to dismantle the alliance between the Irish and the Italians before it became dangerous for my business.”

“Your business,” she murmured, eyes narrowing. “Why am I not surprised?”

I continued regardless, “Second, I needed leverage over your father, who, by the way, has been making bold moves against the Bratva.” I paused, letting my words sink in for a moment.

“Now, he’ll think twice before trying anything stupid, considering that I have his little princess locked away in my castle. ”

The silence between us stretched a few seconds longer until she broke it, asking, more furious than curious, “And the third?”

I flashed that signature smirk that I knew she hated so much and quietly rose to my feet.

“That’s the most important reason of all,” I said, drawing closer to the bed.

“You see, I’ve grown so attached to you that I can’t even bear the thought of someone else marrying you.

” I halted beside the bed, towering over her.

“So, I decided to claim you—to own you and make you mine in front of all those witnesses.”

Her expression darkened. “You’re sick.”

“And you’re mine.” I reached out to grip her jaw, light but firm enough to keep her face locked to me. “You belong to me, Sergei Tarasov, now.”

Ayla slapped my hand away and sprang to her feet, her eyebrows knitting together to form deep creases between them. “I’m not some piece of property that you bought, Sergei. You do not own me,” she hissed, her voice trembling—not with fear but with barely restrained rage.

A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips as I watched her chest rise and fall with shallow breaths, her fists clenched at her sides. She held my gaze, glaring as though she was holding back the urge to do more damage.

“I belong to no man, let alone some narcissistic prick that I hate so much,” she added, as if daring me to do my worst.

Without a word, I pressed forward, slowly, my eyes never leaving hers as she withdrew from me. My gaze was dark with obsession and hunger. She saw it, and her expression softened ever so slightly, yet she didn’t stop until her back hit the wall behind her.

Trapped, she swallowed hard, the atmosphere charged with tension, neither of us willing to break eye contact. Beneath her rage was a glimpse of an emotion I was all too familiar with. Desire. It was shallow. But it was there.

I leaned in and whispered in her ear, my breath against her skin, “You will learn to hate this narcissistic prick properly. Do you understand?” I pulled back to catch the darkness in her eyes.

For the next few seconds, we stared at each other in silence, the fury in her gaze gradually fading away, replaced by something darker.

She tried to hide it, but I could see the hunger in the way she glared at me.

Her chest wouldn’t stop heaving, and her breathing was shallow.

The perfect blend of fury and desire etched in her features ignited a flame within me, the same flame I saw burning in those hazel-brown eyes of hers.

She shoved me, her palms against my chest. But I wouldn’t move, nor would I stop staring at her, imagining all the nasty things I could do to her right now.

My hand snapped out and grabbed her wrist when she tried to storm past me. To my surprise, she didn’t struggle to pull away; instead, her eyes jerked upward and met my gaze in what seemed to be an awkward moment.

Barely three seconds later, our mouths collided in a heated kiss that stole our breath.

I claimed those soft, cherry lips, my tongue sliding in to taste her anger and sexual frustration.

My hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer to me.

She gasped, leaning in as if seeking a deeper connection as her manicured hands undid the buttons of my white undershirt.

Our kiss deepened, the heat between us building fast, wild, and dangerous.

Her hands fumbled with the buttons of my shirt, and mine found the delicate fabric of her wedding dress.

Frustration flared. With one sharp tug, I tore through the silk, ripping it open from the neckline down, exposing the soft skin beneath—her gentle swells.

She broke the kiss and gasped, her eyes wide with astonishment, stunned by the stunt I’d just pulled. A faint smirk played on her lips before she reached out and tore my buttons apart, scattering them across the marble floor.

We collided again, lips crashing dangerously against each other, hotter and more fervently this time.

I squeezed those tender breasts, feeling their softness beneath my palms. Her hands traversed my broad torso before sliding down to unbuckle my belt.

And with expert precision, she loosened my pants, unzipped them, and then withdrew my shaft.

Ayla stroked my length while my hands roamed her incredibly amazing body, tracing every curve and contour. I tore the hem of her wedding dress with a single tug and slipped my hand up her thigh. She was warm and already fuckin’ wet down there.

I teased her a little bit; my fingers caressing the fabric of her underpants. Ayla moaned in my mouth, her thumb smearing my precum over my stick. I slid her panties to the side and pushed my middle finger inside her. Ayla tore her lips off mine and let out a soft purr that fueled my hunger.

I pushed my finger deeper inside her. “You hate me, huh?” My breath brushed her face.

“I fucking hate you,” she moaned, staring into my eyes, hers filled key lust.

“Say it louder,” I dared her, going deeper.

“Oh, fuck you, Sergei,” she murmured, her face contorted in pleasure.

I lifted her leg in the air, positioned my shaft outside her wet entrance, and then with one vigorous push, I claimed her.

A sweet moan left her mouth as her back arched off the wall.

Ayla gasped—sharp and breathless—the scent of her arousal filling the air.

Her hands wrapped around me, fingers clawing at my shoulders, my back, anything to anchor her.

I plunged into her with relentless strokes, her head slamming slightly against the wall behind her.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and then opened again, glassy with heat and something deeper—need, surrender, maybe even defiance.

Or a mix of all. Yet, I didn’t slow down, didn’t stop.

I almost forgot how good it felt to be buried inside her.

With each powerful stroke, her breath hitched, moans turning into whimpers.

I lifted her leg higher and thrusted harder, faster, like a hungry beast devouring its prey. She let out a choked moan, strangled and sweet, her body trembling against mine.

“Sergei,” she whimpered, her voice breaking as I drove deeper, each thrust rougher than the last.

She threw her hands into her hair, eyes rolling backward in response to the chaos of emotions spinning in her chest. Ayla wanted me as much as I wanted her; she’d been starving as much as I was.

I rammed into her mercilessly, her throaty moans and soft purrs amplifying my lust. I drove deeper, faster, and more relentlessly as every nerve in her body came alive, trembling.

She clung to me, meeting me stroke for stroke as she whispered broken pleas in my ear.

The more she pleaded with me, the more I lost control, driving faster and harder, each thrust echoing with a slap of skin.

The wall rattled behind her, but neither of us cared. Her breasts bounced up and down, and her breath hitched in her throat as I slammed vigorously into her.

It was rough, desperate, and every thrust was a release of all the pent-up frustration, longing, and rage I’d been carrying this whole time. A primal growl signaled my arrival, and with one powerful strike, I traveled deeper, feeling her nails raking my back.

She moaned loudly when I finally came—deep inside her. It felt like something fractured and realigned within me. Her legs trembled, and she gasped my name, “Sergei.”

Ayla’s body pulsed around mine, and I held her there, my forehead to hers, breathless in the silence that followed.

“You belong to me now,” I said, my voice cracking under the weight of all that pleasure coursing through me. I caressed her hair for a while, staring into her eyes before withdrawing my shaft from her pussy.

Her expression darkened, a glint of that former rage and hatred sneaking back inside. My lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk, and I walked away, heading into the bathroom.

Ayla had enjoyed the sex as much as I did, and that alone was something worth holding on to.