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Adrien suddenly thrashes against his restraints, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor as he tries to move, to speak, to do something. His muffled sounds grow increasingly frantic and desperate.

Vittorio yanks his head back harder, the blade pressing dangerously against Adrien’s jugular. “Be still,” he hisses, “or I’ll cut out your fucking tongue before I slit your throat.”

Adrien goes rigid, his chest heaving with panicked breaths. Fresh blood trickles down his neck, joining the stains already soaking his shirt.

“Please. At least blindfold him. Or let him go. You have me. You don’t need him.”

“But I do need him,” Vittorio counters, stepping away from Adrien while keeping the knife visible.

“He’s my insurance. My leverage. As long as he’s here, you’ll do exactly as I say.

” He moves toward the bed, his eyes never leaving my naked body.

“And I want him to watch. I want him to see exactly who this pussy belongs to.”

I close my eyes, unable to look at either of them—Vittorio with his cold calculation, Adrien with his desperate, helpless concern. I’ve never felt more exposed, more vulnerable in my life. Not just physically naked, I’m stripped of all defenses, all choices.

“You promised to be good,” Vittorio reminds me, his voice closer now. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

I force my eyes open, blinking away tears to find him standing at the foot of the bed, watching me with that same hungry intensity.

He sets the knife down on the bedside table, then begins to unbuckle his belt. “Now we’ll find out if you’re lying, if he must be tortured first.”

The words land like ice in my stomach. This is really happening. He’s going to rape me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. If I fight, Adrien dies. If I scream, Adrien dies. If I do anything besides lie here and take it, Adrien dies.

I catch Adrien’s eye over Vittorio’s shoulder. There’s so much pain there, so much rage and helplessness. And something else—guilt. As if he’s somehow failed me by being captured, by being used against me.

I try to convey with my eyes that it’s not his fault. That I’m the one who got us into this. That I’m choosing this, if you can call it a choice when the alternative is watching someone you care about die.

“Please,” I whisper one last time, not sure what I’m even asking for anymore. Mercy? Gentleness? For this all to be a nightmare I’ll wake up from?

Vittorio’s belt slides free with a soft hiss of leather against fabric. “No more begging,” he says, dropping the belt beside the knife. “No more talking at all. Unless I ask you a direct question.” His hands move to his zipper. “Understand?”

I nod, biting my lip to keep from sobbing. There’s a strange detachment settling over me now, as if I’m floating somewhere near the ceiling, staring down at the scene below—a naked, trembling girl on a hotel bed; a man unzipping his pants; another man bound and bleeding, forced to watch.

“Good,” Vittorio says, approval warming his voice like this is normal, like I’m doing well at some ordinary task instead of submitting to violation. “Very good.”

And as he climbs onto the bed. I try to retreat up the bed, a futile, instinctive movement that he halts with a single harsh laugh.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His hands shoot out, gripping my hips with bruising force, his fingers digging into flesh. He drags me to the edge of the bed, my naked body sliding across the expensive sheets with humiliating ease. “Running only makes it worse.”

I can’t stop the sobs that wrack my body, each breath hitching painfully in my chest. This can’t be happening. But it is. The reality of it crashes over me in waves—the cool air on my exposed skin, the heat of his hands on my hips, the weight of Adrien’s desperate gaze from across the room.

Vittorio looms over me, his expression softening in a way that’s somehow more terrifying than his anger. He traces a finger down my cheek, collecting a tear. “In time, you will come to love me,” he murmurs, his voice taking on an almost gentle quality. “You won’t hate me forever, Gina.”

The statement is so absurd, so disconnected from reality, that a hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat.

I choke it back, afraid of what might happen if I let it out.

How could he possibly think this is something I could ever not hate him for?

That this violation could ever be anything besides a nightmare I’ll relive for the rest of my life?

He positions himself between my legs, one hand keeping my hip pinned to the mattress while the other guides himself to my entrance. I feel the blunt pressure of him against me, alien and unwelcome, my body instinctively trying to close, to reject the intrusion.

“Please,” I whisper, the word little more than a breath. “Don’t do ? —”

He presses the tip of his cock between my folds, and I gasp at the contact. I’m dry from fear, my body refusing to prepare itself for what’s coming. The resistance only seems to please him, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Love me, hate me,” he snarls, his hips pushing forward with determined pressure. “It makes no difference. You’re mine now.”

The pain when he enters me is sharp and immediate, a burning tear that radiates outward from my core. I cry out, my back arching involuntarily as my body tries to escape the invasion. His hand comes down hard on my thigh, the slap echoing in the quiet room.

“Don’t tense,” he warns, his voice tight with restraint. “Relax. If you are a virgin, you’ll only be hurting yourself.”

As if I have any control over how my body responds to this trauma.

As if I could possibly relax while being violated, while my boyfriend watches helplessly from across the room.

I try anyway, forcing my muscles to go limp, knowing that fighting will only make the pain worse, will only anger him further.

He pushes deeper, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth as my teeth break skin. My hands fist in the sheets, knuckles white with tension. Tears stream down my face, disappearing into my hair, into the fabric beneath me.

“There,” he murmurs as he seats himself fully inside me. “The worst part is over.”

He withdraws slightly, and I see blood—my blood—coating him, proof of my virginity, of what he’s taken from me and the tearing pain he caused me. Something no one can ever give back. He seems transfixed by the sight for a moment, his expression almost reverent.

“A gift indeed,” he says, more to himself than to me. Then his eyes lock with mine again. “One I’ll treasure appropriately.”

He begins to move, each thrust sending fresh waves of pain through my body.

I try to disconnect, to float away like I did before, however, the pain anchors me firmly in the present.

There’s no escape, no retreat into numbness.

Just the harsh reality of what’s happening, the sound of his breathing growing heavier, the feel of his hands gripping my flesh. A whimper escapes me.

Vittorio mistakes it for a response to his actions, a small smile curving his lips. “You’ll learn to enjoy it,” he promises, his pace increasing. “They all do, eventually.”

The implication that there have been others, that I’m just the latest in a line of women he’s broken, sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the physical pain.

How many? How many have been where I am now?

And where are they now? Dead? Broken? Or somewhere worse—living as his possessions, convinced they deserve nothing better?

“Please,” I gasp, the word barely audible between labored breaths. “It hurts ? —”

“It’s supposed to,” Vittorio grunts, his fingers digging deeper into my hips, holding me in place as I instinctively try to squirm away. “The first time always does.”

My legs shake uncontrollably, muscles spasming from the strain of being held open, from the shock coursing through my system. I arch my back, trying to create distance, to alleviate the pressure. Vittorio follows the movement, maintaining the brutal connection between our bodies.

A particularly vicious thrust sends white-hot pain lancing through me, and I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming.

The taste of copper fills my mouth again—my blood, warm and metallic.

I turn my head to the side, unable to look at the man violating me, and instead find myself locking eyes with Adrien.

His face is a mask of helpless rage, tears streaming from his one good eye. The duct tape across his mouth is soaked with saliva and blood where he’s been screaming behind it, straining against his restraints until fresh blood seeps from his wrists, dripping onto the floor beneath his chair.

A particularly violent thrash from Adrien catches Vittorio’s attention. He turns, never breaking his rhythm inside me, and snarls, “Shut up! Or I will kill you.”

The threat only seems to enrage Adrien all the more. He’s trying to say something behind the gag, his chest heaving with the effort. The veins in his neck stand out, pulsing with fury and fear. The chair rocks beneath him as he struggles, the metal legs scraping against the floor.

Vittorio’s face darkens. With a growl of annoyance, he pulls out of me and strides across the room. The brief reprieve from pain is overshadowed by terror as I watch him approach Adrien, arm already raised.

The backhand connects with a sickening crack, snapping Adrien’s head to the side. Fresh blood sprays from his already split lip, soaking through the tape and dripping down his chin.

“I said,” Vittorio enunciates each word with deadly precision, “shut. the. fuck. up.” He leans in close to Adrien’s face. “The next sound you make will be your last. Understood?”

Adrien glares up at him, hatred burning in his eyes, yet he gives a small, jerky nod.

“Good.” Vittorio straightens, adjusting himself before turning back to me. “Now, where were we?”