Page 14

Tight. Too tight. And the way her body clenches?—

Fuck. She’s a virgin.

I freeze, my hands tightening painfully on her hips .

There’s blood. I feel it. The resistance wasn’t just her body, it was all of her. Untouched. Unclaimed.

And now ruined by me.

Her head is turned to the side, cheek pressed flat to the cream comforter.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t even flinch.

I try. God, I try to slow down. To loosen my grip, to ease the thrusts.

But it’s too late. The damage is done. I’m inside her, deep, buried in something I had no right to take.

The possessive part of me is howling—mine, mine, mine—but the man? The man is fucking panicking.

Because she’s not here, not really. She’s too silent, too still… She’s completely dissociating.

And I keep going because I’m weak. Because I’m angry. Because she feels like heaven wrapped in sin.

I spill inside her with a growl that I try, and fail, to swallow.

My forehead drops against her shoulder. My lips brush her neck in a touch so soft it disgusts me.

"I—" I start, not even sure what the fuck I’m trying to say.

"You came," she whispers. Her voice is flat. Hollow. Empty in a way that guts me. "You’re done with the whore now, right?"

The words slice through me like a blade, sharp and clean.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Because the truth is… I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore.

She nudges me off her with a sharp, jerky shove of her shoulder.

Not a scream. Not a slap. Just… a push. A silent dismissal.

Like I’m not even worth her anger.

I roll away, the loss of her body around me sudden and sharp. I sit on the edge of the bed, dragging a hand down my face, breathing like I just fought a goddamn war and lost.

She rises slowly, carefully, like every movement aches.

She grabs her dress and pulls it down without looking at me, and without a word, she crosses the room, her steps mechanical.

She disappears into the bathroom, and the click of the door closing is louder than any gunshot I’ve ever heard.

I stare at the door. At the empty bed. At the crimson stain blooming on the bedspread like a wound.

Mine. The word pounds inside my skull. Mine.

And yet, I feel like I just broke something I can never fix. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, my fists clenched so tight my knuckles crack.

This wasn’t supposed to matter. She wasn’t supposed to matter .

She’s a traitor. A liar. A spy.

She deserved to be punished, so why do I feel like the fucking villain? Why does her silence carve me open more brutally than any scream would have?

I think of her father, of Don Salvatore.

Of the way she looked when I held that gun to her head. Not defiant. Not afraid. Resigned. Like she expected it. Like she’d been waiting for it her whole life .

What kind of monster sends his own daughter into an enemy’s house to die slowly?

What kind of father?—

I shove the thought away.

It doesn’t fucking matter.

And Bruno, fucking Bruno.

The way she looked at him. Like he was salvation. Like he was safety. Like if she just reached out, he’d catch her.

My jaw tightens, rage and jealousy coiling hot and ugly in my gut.

I wanted to believe she gave herself to him before she came here. That her father sent her as a punishment. That the shame would kill her faster than my hands ever could.

I wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it.

Because if I believe she’s innocent. If I believe she’s good.

Then it’s not just her blood staining these sheets.

It’s mine.

And I don’t think I can live with that.

The bathroom door creaks open. I don’t look up at first. I can’t.

When I finally force myself to lift my head, she’s standing there, pale and composed, wrapped in a robe because the dress is ruined.

In her hands is the bloodstained dress.

She steps closer, each movement so measured it feels rehearsed. Like every ounce of humanity has been wrung out of her.

She holds out the dress, stained with her virginal blood, but not even looking at me .

"You can go show them the marriage was consummated," she says quietly.

No anger. No tears. No soul left in the words.

My chest squeezes painfully, but I stay sitting, my hands fisted uselessly on my knees.

She nods to herself as if she’s having an internal debate, then turns toward the bed.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," she says, voice steady in a way that guts me worse than any scream would have, "I need to sleep. I have to wake up early tomorrow."

She pulls back the clean side of the sheets and slides into bed without looking at me.

My hand twitches toward her. I want to touch her shoulder, say something, anything. But I freeze halfway, fingers curled in midair like a coward, then let it drop back to my knee.

"I have the children to take for their uniform fittings. Nanny duties," she finishes, like she’s reminding me and herself what she is now.

Not a wife. Not even a woman. Just… a function.

I sit there, useless and mute, watching her turn her back to me, curling into a tight ball on the edge of the bed.

And for the first time since I put a gun to her head, I wonder if I made a mistake I can never come back from.