Page 23 of Malicious Claim (Dark Inheritance #1)

Submission is an Illusion

Leila lay back on the silk-draped, cold bed, her entire body less painful because her wounds had been bandaged and she'd had some pain relievers. She was in a different kind of pain now, a psychological pain, one that numbed and blunted her senses more than the pain relievers could ever do.

That was why she didn’t hear the door when it creaked open.

Makros crept in soundlessly like a cat but she could tell he was there. She could always tell whenever his presence filled a room.

He had left her for hours, giving her time to stew on the failure of her escape. Now, he stood at the end of the bed, face devoid of expression, but his eyes flamed with something evil, something demanding.

"You are good," he admitted, voice smooth, almost laughing. "Three men down. Impressive."

Leila swallowed but remained silent. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Makros inclined his head, regarding her like a problem to be solved. Then, wordlessly, he reached over to undo his belt in slow, measured motions.

Leila's pulse accelerated.

She had expected this to occur, but expectation didn't prepare her for the thrill of it happening.

Makros came closer, loosening the leather from his belt loops. He trailed the tip of it along her leg, watching her muscles tense.

"You think you can run away from me?" His voice was low, even, but she picked up on the tension beneath the words.

Leila expelled a hard breath through her nostrils. "I think I can survive without you."

The belt whipped across the sheets beside her, a dangerous warning.

“You don't get to decide that.” Makros knelt, gripping her jaw. "You're mine. It doesn’t matter what you think."

Leila forced a bitter, humorless laugh, lips contorting into a quasi-smirk. "Belong? I don't belong to anyone, Makros."

His grip tightened. "Then I'll have to demonstrate."

She didn't fight when he rolled her onto her stomach. Didn't fight when he mounted her back and pinned her down with the weight of his body. Fighting at this point would do nothing but fuel his hunger.

No. If she was going to come out on top, she had to endure it.

The first whip of the belt was not unexpected, but it still ripped a shocked gasp from her lips. He did not pause. He followed it with another and then another, each one measured out. Controlled. He made sure it was enough to hurt, enough to remind her that she was at his mercy.

He was punishing her, undoubtedly, but there was something more going on here. Makros was not trying to hurt her—he was trying to break her.

He was going to be disappointed.

Leila clenched her teeth, not willing to give him the satisfaction of crying.

Makros leaned in, his lips against the shell of her ear. "Tell me, Leila... Do you regret running?"

She breathed unsteadily. "No."

A low laugh. "Stubborn as ever."

The belt fell to the floor, replaced by his hands. His hands were burning flame on her battered skin, tracing the bruise like an artist examining his masterpiece.

Leila wished for her body to be quiet beneath him. She wouldn't let him catch the shiver in her hands, the caught breath when he moved.

"Fight me harder," Makros breathed. "I enjoy the chase."

She tilted her head slightly to look into his eyes. "And one day, I'll get to see you bleed."

Makros grinned. "We'll see, dolcezza ."

And then he kissed her, slow and deep, taking her as he always did.

This kiss was meant to make her ill. She was supposed to bite his mouth off, to make him bleed. But she didn't. And that frightened her more than anything.

Leila's body betrayed her, growing numb instead of fighting, absorbing instead of rejecting. Fists bunched in the sheets, nails gouging deep, trying to anchor herself in the real world.

Makros wasn't kissing her, he was consuming her, reminding her that he took every square inch of space she occupied. His lips slid with a slow measurement, testing, teasing, tempting her into a reaction she refused to give.

She hated him. Hated the way his warmth seeped into her body, the way the scent of his skin, of dark spice and smoke languished on hers like a signature.

Makros pulled back, his warmth on her lips, and smirked. "You're not fighting me, Wifey ."

Leila swallowed, looking up at him, her muscles locked in defiance. "Because I'm waiting for the best time to strike," she breathed.

Makros traced her bottom lip with his thumb, his sense of humor flaring into something more intense, more possessive. "Good," he breathed. "I wouldn't want you to shatter too easily."

And then he was off her, standing beside the bed and rolling up his sleeves as if preparing for something painstaking. Something long-term.

Leila struggled to sit up because of the pain in her muscles that she had sustained from the beating. The welts on her back pulsed with heat, but she wouldn't move. She wouldn't give him the pleasure of knowing she was hurt.

Makros retrieved the belt he had let fall, running the length of the leather through his fingers before looking at her. "On your knees."

Leila gazed back at him. "No."

Makros exhaled hard. " Wifey , always proving to be so difficult."

He grabbed her by the wrist as she tried to get away, yanking her off the bed. She fell to her knees, the shock jolting through her skeleton, but still she did not say a word.

"You never learn, huh?" Makros said, he moved up behind her, his presence looming. "If pain won't teach you, then maybe something else will."

His fingers dug into her hair, his head tilting so she couldn't help but catch his eye. His expression was neutral, but the hold he had on her was firm.

"You're going to learn to submit, Leila," he said in a voice that was smooth like honey. "And not because I forced you but because, in the back of your mind, you do and will."

Leila drew a rough breath, biting back the scream of anger rising in her throat.

He was playing with her. Twisting the knife.

Makros ran his fingers over the marks on her back, slow, possessive. "You believe you still have control, but you don't. Not really. Every breath you breathe, every thought you think, I own it."

Leila clamped down hard on her teeth. "You don't own me."

Makros hummed, uninterested. "Then why are you still here?"

Leila didn't answer. She couldn't.

Because whether she liked it or not, she was still here.

It was only because she hadn’t perished while trying to flee. She hadn't pushed herself to her absolute limit.

Somewhere deep inside the distorted depths of her mind, she wondered if she had known that escaping would cost her something greater than freedom?

Makros was gazing at her, expecting her to shatter.

She wouldn't.

Rather, she stood taller. "If submission is what you wish, then take it."

Makros froze, his eyes flashing with something indistinguishable.

Leila willed herself to sneer. "But don't forget, Makros," she breathed. "Submission is an illusion."

Makros laughed and then, in a horror that was almost too sweet, he ran a finger down her face. "We'll see, dolcezza ."