Page 18

Steam fills the bathroom, clinging to the mirrored surfaces and curling around me as I step out of the shower. The warmth is soothing against my skin, but my heart pounds harder with each passing moment. I grip the plush towel tightly around myself, staring at my reflection in the fogged mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my hair damp and curling against my shoulders.

This is his bathroom. Now, apparently, it’s mine too. The realization sinks in like a weight pressing against my chest. I’m Serge’s wife. Legally bound. His name is now tied to mine, and there’s no undoing it.

My eyes dart to the counter where an array of items waits—lingerie, carefully chosen and undeniably provocative. A pale silk set trimmed with delicate lace, its softness contradicting the tension in the air.

Beside it sits a bottle of perfume, the glass bottle etched with an intricate design. I uncapped it earlier, catching the faint floral and spicy scent that felt far too intimate to wear.

He picked these out for me.

The thought sends a rush of conflicting emotions through me—anger, defiance, and a traitorous flicker of anticipation I can’t quite suppress. Does he think he can control me completely? Dress me like a doll and mold me into the perfect wife?

Yet, there’s something else beneath the surface. Something I don’t want to admit.

The truth is, Serge has always had a way of unraveling me. Even when I hated him most, there was no denying the pull between us, the way his touch could ignite something in me that no one else ever could. I crave him, even now. The thought alone makes my breath catch.

I brush away the fog on the mirror with a trembling hand, staring hard at my reflection. My damp hair clings to my skin, my lips slightly parted. I look like a woman bracing herself for something she doesn’t understand but can’t resist.

I shouldn’t feel this way. He’s dragged me into his world, into a life I never wanted. He’s dangerous, controlling, infuriating. There’s no denying that he’s also captivating in a way I can’t escape.

My fingers brush over the silk of the lingerie, and I hesitate. Am I really going to wear this for him? The answer should be no. I should rebel, fight him at every turn.

I don’t.

I slip the silk over my skin, the cool fabric clinging to my curves like a second skin. It’s too revealing, too intimate, and yet it feels right in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. I spritz a touch of the perfume onto my wrists and throat, the scent immediately wrapping around me like a whispered promise.

My nerves twist tighter with each passing second as I glance toward the door. He’s waiting for me. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I can’t tell if it’s from fear, excitement, or something darker that I don’t want to name.

The bathroom feels too small, too confining. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. Whatever happens, I can’t let him see how nervous I am. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

The truth is, I’m terrified.

Terrified of what he’ll do. Terrified of what I’ll do.

I smooth my damp hair back, straighten my shoulders, and step toward the door. My hand hovers over the handle for a moment before I turn it, pushing the door open slowly.

The bedroom is dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows across the room. Serge stands near the bed, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. His jacket is gone, the crisp white of his shirt rolled up at the sleeves, exposing his forearms. He looks relaxed, almost casual, but there’s a tension in the way he watches me.

His icy-blue eyes sweep over me, taking in every inch of my appearance. I feel the heat of his gaze like a physical touch, and my breath catches despite myself.

“You’re ready,” he says, his voice low and deliberate.

I take a step forward, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. My pulse thunders in my ears as I meet his gaze, my heart a warzone of emotions I can’t control.

“Yes,” I whisper, though I’m not sure if I mean it.

His lips curve into the faintest smirk, and he gestures toward the bed. “Come here, wife .”

My stomach flips at the word, but I force myself to move, each step bringing me closer to whatever comes next.

The scent of the perfume I’d sprayed lingers in the air, soft and alluring, mingling with the rich spice of his cologne. The combination is intoxicating, wrapping around us like an invisible thread drawing us closer. Serge doesn’t take his eyes off me as I step further into the room, each movement deliberate, hesitant. The silk of the lingerie clings to my skin, its coolness a stark contrast to the heat spreading through me.

He closes the distance between us in a few strides, his presence overwhelming, suffocating in its intensity. My heart pounds as he stops just inches away, his eyes boring into mine. I try to hold his gaze, to show him I’m not afraid, but the pull between us is too strong, my resolve faltering under the weight of his dominance.

“You look perfect,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent. But there’s nothing gentle about the way he grips my chin, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. His fingers are firm, commanding, and the roughness of his touch sends a shiver through me.

“Serge,” I start, but the words die on my lips when he leans down, his mouth crashing against mine.

The kiss is rough, unrelenting, his lips demanding submission. It’s not tender or sweet—this is about control, about staking his claim. His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me in place as his mouth moves against mine, taking, consuming.

I freeze at first, my instincts screaming to push him away, to fight. My hands press against his chest, but the solid muscle beneath my palms only reminds me of his strength. His other hand slides down, gripping my waist possessively, and I feel his heat seeping through the thin fabric of the lingerie.

I want to resist. I tell myself I should, that I hate him, that this is wrong. But the truth is, I want this. I’ve wanted this for longer than I care to admit. No one else has ever made me feel this way—like I’m burning alive and I don’t want it to stop.

My resistance crumbles as his tongue sweeps over my lips, demanding entry. I part them, letting him in, and a low growl rumbles in his chest as he deepens the kiss. My hands move from his chest to his shoulders, clutching him tightly as if I might fall.

His scent surrounds me, heady and intoxicating. The spice of his cologne mixed with the faintest trace of something earthy and warm. It’s a stark contrast to the delicate floral notes of the perfume he’d chosen for me, and together, they create an atmosphere that’s almost suffocating in its intensity.

He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips brushing against mine. “You’re mine now, Chiara. In every way.”

The words send a jolt through me, and I feel my body tense instinctively. Before I can form a response, his lips are on mine again, stealing my breath, my thoughts.

His hands slide lower, gripping my hips and pulling me flush against him. The heat between us is electric, every touch igniting something primal and uncontrollable. He breaks the kiss, his mouth trailing along my jaw, down the curve of my neck. His stubble grazes my skin, a delicious friction that makes me gasp.

“Serge,” I manage, my voice trembling as his hands roam over me, his touch firm and commanding.

He lifts me effortlessly, his strength evident as he carries me the few steps to the bed. I want to protest, to reclaim some semblance of control, but my body betrays me. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, my hands clutching his shoulders as he lays me down on the soft mattress.

The silk of the sheets is cool against my heated skin, and the scent of him is everywhere now, filling my senses, clouding my thoughts. He hovers over me, his gaze dark and unreadable as he takes me in.

“I’ve waited four years for this,” he says, his voice rough, almost possessive. His hand trails along my side, the silk of the lingerie barely a barrier between his touch and my skin.

I can’t speak, can’t think. All I can do is feel—the weight of him above me, the heat of his breath on my skin, the way his touch ignites a fire that I can’t control.

“Say it,” he demands, his lips brushing against my ear. “Say you’re mine.”

My heart pounds as I meet his gaze, the intensity in his eyes leaving no room for escape. I should resist, I should fight, but instead, I whisper the words he wants to hear.

“I’m yours.”

His lips crash against mine again, and this time, I don’t hold back. I kiss him with everything I have, surrendering to the storm that has been building between us for far too long.

I feel his fingers dig into my hips, his touch firm enough to leave marks. I gasp against his mouth, a mix of pain and pleasure surging through me as his hand slides to the curve of my thigh, pulling me closer beneath him.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice low and possessive, as if the words alone could brand me. His teeth graze the sensitive skin of my neck, and I arch against him despite myself.

I can feel his cock strain against his pants, tantalizingly out of reach. Despite the time I was in Montana, I remember him perfectly—thick and long, the best I’ve ever had.

It’s enough to make me moan.

He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes searching mine. “Say it again,” he demands, his fingers trailing down my arm before gripping my wrist. His thumb brushes over the tender skin there, and I know he can feel my racing pulse. “Say you’re mine. I won’t fuck you unless you say it again.”

My lips part, the defiance bubbling up despite the fire roaring in my veins. “You make it sound as if you want to own me.”

His smirk is faint, dangerous, as if he finds my resistance amusing. “Don’t I?” he murmurs, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, holding me in place. “Then why are you letting me do this?”

“Serge, fuck me already—”

“No. Not unless you do as I say.”

I huff, desperately clawing at him. “I’m yours! I’m yours. ”

“Good girl.”

Before I can respond, his lips are on my collarbone, his teeth grazing the delicate skin there. I cry out softly, my hands clutching his shoulders as his touch turns rougher. He bites down, not enough to break the skin but enough to send a sharp jolt through me.

He tugs down his pants and enters me; I’m so thoroughly soaked that his cock slides in effortlessly, filling me to the brim. Serge thrusts, and I gasp, my head spinning as hot arousal envelops me.

I feel the bruises forming already as he pounds into me, his hands gripping painfully tight. The heat and sting of his mouth leaving a trail of evidence across my skin. My breath comes in shallow gasps as he moves lower, his hands gripping my waist tightly. His fingers dig in, holding me in place, and I know there will be marks there too.

“These bruises,” he says against my skin, timed with each delicious thrust, “they’re mine. They mark you as mine. No one else will ever touch you like this.”

My stomach twists at his words, a mix of anger and desire that I can’t untangle. “You think bruises make me yours?” I snap, but the meaning is lost as I arch my back, desperate to feel him stretch me wide.

“They’re a reminder,” he says, lifting his head to meet my gaze. His eyes are dark, unwavering. “A reminder that you’re not free, Chiara. Not anymore.”

His words should terrify me, should ignite the fury I’ve been clinging to. Instead, it brings me over the edge with a breathless gasp. I moan against his lips, eyes squeezed closed as my world goes white with pleasure.

Serge comes too, spilling hot seed as my walls clench around his cock. He grunts—it could have even been my name—and his hands are like a vise on me.

We come together, and I’m barely even aware I’m calling his name.

When it’s over, we lie side by side on the bed, the room silent except for the sound of our breathing. My skin feels tender, bruised in places, and the faint scent of his cologne still lingers in the air, mixing with the floral perfume I’d worn earlier.

I turn my head slightly, glancing at him. His expression is unreadable, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, as if lost in thought. For a moment, I wonder if he regrets it, but then his hand moves to my wrist, his fingers brushing over the faint marks he left there.

“You’ll remember this,” he says quietly, not looking at me.

I don’t reply. I’m too tired, too overwhelmed by everything that’s happened, to argue or fight. My body aches, and my mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—anger, guilt, desire, and something I can’t name.

The room is heavy with silence, the kind that presses against your chest and makes every sound feel too loud. Serge lies beside me, his arm casually draped across his stomach as he continues to stare at the ceiling, his expression unreadable. I hate the way he can look so composed, as if this was just another calculated move in a long game.

I shift slightly, the ache in my body a constant reminder of everything that just happened. My fingers brush over the faint bruises on my wrist, and I glare at him, though he doesn’t meet my gaze. “You think this proves something?”

His lips twitch, but it’s not quite a smile. “It proves enough.”

I push myself up on one elbow, ignoring the way the sheets slide against my skin, cool and soft in stark contrast to the heat still simmering in my veins. “Bruises don’t mean anything, Serge. They don’t mean you’ve won.”

His eyes finally meet mine, sharp and unyielding. “You say that now,” he murmurs, his voice low. “You didn’t push me away, did you? You wanted this just as much as I did.”

I swallow hard, the truth of his words cutting deeper than I want to admit. “I didn’t—”

He interrupts me, sitting up slightly, his presence overwhelming even in his stillness. “You can lie to yourself, Chiara. Don’t lie to me. I know you better than that.”

I open my mouth to argue, but no words come. His gaze pins me in place, and for a moment, all I can do is stare back.

Finally, I drop back against the pillow, my body too exhausted to keep fighting.

“You’re insufferable,” I mutter.

I close my eyes, his words haunting me as sleep takes over.