Page 42

T he stranger in the mirror wore my face like an ill-fitting mask—vacant-eyed, skin bleached of color beneath harsh light. My fingers trembled as I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear for the fourth time. I couldn't get it right. Nothing was right. The mascara wand slipped in my sweating palm, leaving a black streak across my cheek.

Family dinner. With V. And my parents. Because why experience ordinary trauma when you could engineer your own special hell?

The soft pink sweater I'd chosen hung loose at my collar. The bruises along my jawline still bloomed yellow-purple despite my careful application of concealer. One week since that night, but my body refused to forget what my mind couldn't process.

Tonight, after dinner, V and Dad were heading out on club business. Some mission that required both of them, apparently. Mom had insisted I stay with her—their house had a security system. I'd wanted to argue, but the devastation in Mom's eyes when she first saw the bruises had changed my mind.

"Seven minutes." V's voice sliced through the bathroom door. My hip slammed against the counter as I flinched, another bruise blooming beneath denim. No point perfecting my makeup now. V would see right through it anyway. He always saw everything.

The lock twisted with a harsh metallic scrape. He filled the doorframe completely—shoulders nearly touching both sides, head almost brushing the top. The surgical mask covered half his face, turning his expressions into a cruel guessing game. Only his eyes communicated, and tonight they were obsidian—flat, reflective, revealing nothing while absorbing everything.

"A-almost ready," I stammered, voice cracking on the first syllable. My hands flew to my hair, smoothing what was already smooth. "I just need to?—"

Two soundless steps and he crossed the bathroom. Personal space wasn't a concept V recognized—not with me. His body heat pressed against my back before he even touched me, the scent of leather and gunpowder filling my lungs. His proximity stole the oxygen from the room, leaving my lungs burning.

A small black box appeared in his scarred hand, held in front of me like an offering. Or a threat. My pulse skittered, stumbled, then raced ahead. My throat closed around unformed questions. The velvet box settled on the counter with quiet finality. Ash radiated from his skin as he stood waiting, the scent pulling me back to the basement at Hellbound, to that stained blanket on cold concrete.

The hinge released with a soft click that echoed like a gunshot in the small bathroom. Nestled against midnight velvet lay something I recognized immediately.

"Is that..." The words died on my tongue, heat flooding my face. "Why would you?—"

"Your period." He said it like discussing the weather. "You said orgasms help with cramps."

The vibrator caught the bathroom light, its sleek surface gleaming beside a small magnetic clip.

"You won't let me have you." The hairs at my nape stiffened at the blunt assessment. We hadn't been intimate since the wedding night. "This will help."

It was my period week—a week of absolute hell—but it was day four and I'd stopped bleeding on day three... but the cramps were nonstop. Words abandoned me as he lifted the toy from the package. "Need to make sure it works."

I turned, spine digging into the counter's edge as I tried to create distance where none existed. "V, we have to leave soon?—"

His breath ghosted across the shell of my ear, hot and damp even through the mask. The bathroom suddenly felt twenty degrees warmer, air thickening until it caught in my throat. "Unbutton your jeans."

My brain short-circuited. The delay cost me as V's hand moved to the waistband of my dark denim jeans, button slipping free with a soft pop that shattered the silence. The zipper's teeth parted, revealing pale skin and white cotton beneath. His palm pressed flat against my lower belly, the heat from his hand seeping through to my core. He detached the black magnet from the vibrator. "V, we can't?—"

Cool silicone pressed against my most sensitive nerves, the sudden intrusion sending electric currents shooting up my spine. An involuntary gasp tore from my lips as my fingers clutched the counter edge for support. He positioned the device with terrifying accuracy, then slid my underwear back into place. The magnet clipped to the cotton exterior with a soft snap.

His phone appeared in his palm, one finger swiping across the screen. "Oh!"

Vibrations erupted against my body without warning. My knees buckled as sensation shot through me, sharp and unexpected. Every muscle below my waist clenched instinctively, a response I couldn't control even as my mind screamed in protest. V observed my reaction, head tilting slightly as his thumb slid across the screen again.

The pattern shifted from steady hum to pulsing waves, each one stronger than the last. Electricity raced up my spine, pooling at the base of my skull. I pressed my thighs together tightly, but it only intensified the torment. "I-It works!"

His thumb tapped the screen once more. The vibrations ceased abruptly, leaving my body strung tight, nerve endings still crackling with unresolved tension. His attention lingered on my parted lips, on the rapid rise and fall of my chest as I struggled to regain composure.

"Finish getting ready." The door snapped shut behind him with quiet finality.

Between my thighs, the vibrator lay silent but potent—a loaded gun with his finger on the trigger.

Dad's expression transformed the instant the door swung open—the welcoming smile shattering into something hard and jagged as his eyes locked on V towering behind me. The muscles along Dad's jaw bunched visibly beneath stubbled skin, a vein at his temple throbbing with barely contained rage.

He shifted sideways in the doorway, the movement reluctant and mechanical, like his body was fighting a command from his brain. Every line in his posture screamed resistance. V stiffened behind me, his chest expanding against my back as he inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of hostility like others might appreciate fine wine.

"Oakley, honey!"

Mom's voice cut through the frozen tableau as she emerged from the kitchen trailing clouds of savory steam, flour-dusted hands leaving white prints on her dark apron. Her smile remained intact for precisely three seconds—until her gaze drifted to my jawline where makeup couldn't quite conceal the truth. The subtle tightening around her mouth, the momentary flicker in her eyes betrayed everything she tried to hide.

"And V!" She recovered admirably, voice warm despite the fear that flashed across her face. "I'm glad you could join us."

V studied her. His brow furrowed as she placed her hand on his arm—her fingers light, automatic, maternal. Something unreadable crossed his face, there and gone before I could decipher it.

"Your face looks better," Mom whispered, leaning close enough that her perfume wrapped around me like a childhood blanket—artificial coconut and something powdery that had scented every memory of comfort I'd ever had.

"Come in," Mom urged, her hand finding the small of my back as she guided us through the foyer. "Dinner's almost ready."

She ushered us further into the house, her hands constantly in motion—adjusting a picture frame, straightening a runner, nervous energy manifesting in movement. "V, I didn't know what you might like, so I made a bit of everything."

Mom's fingers brushed V's forearm, barely making contact as she guided him toward the kitchen. He went still at her touch, muscles coiling beneath his skin. "I could use a strong pair of hands with the roast." I threw her a questioning look, eyebrows climbing toward my hairline. She replied with that smile that had soothed childhood nightmares—the one that meant she knew exactly what she was doing.

V followed her into the kitchen, his massive frame menacing among the cheerful yellow walls and hanging copper pots that had defined my childhood. Through the doorway, I watched as Mom handed him a carving knife and cutting board, positioning them on the counter. The six-foot-four enforcer accepting kitchen instructions from my five-foot-four mother struck me as surreal.

"You hold it like this," she instructed, repositioning his hands on the knife handle with steady fingers. Her hands didn't hesitate over his scars, treating the ridged tissue and burned flesh as unremarkable as Dad's reading glasses or the freckles on my nose. "Perfect. Have you carved a roast before?"

V didn't move for a long moment, his attention fixed on her hands touching his. The silence stretched until it thinned, threatening to snap. "Only bodies."

My palm slapped against my forehead as Mom's laugh turned brittle, fracturing at the edges. But she didn't move away from him, didn't flinch. She simply nodded as if he'd commented on the weather.

"Well," she recovered admirably, her voice steady even as color drained from her face, "this is less... resistant."

V's gaze tracked every movement, unblinking, his head tilting subtly as he dissected her gestures. When she demonstrated the first cut, the blade sliced through the meat with ease, revealing the red center where blood-tinged juice pooled. His eyes fixed on the crimson liquid that seeped from the meat, a hunger igniting behind them that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with what the color represented.

"That's it," she said with a nod, seemingly oblivious to the darkness gathering behind his eyes. "The meat should be rare in the center—just warmed through."

V's entire demeanor transformed—shoulders squaring, fingers adjusting their grip. Each precise stroke revealed another slice, red juice pooling beneath the blade. Mom stepped back, watching with barely concealed surprise at his unexpected skill.

"There you go. You have good hands for this—steady."

V kept his eyes on the task, but I caught a flicker of something across his face—an expression I couldn't interpret, gone before I could analyze it. Mom chatted about cooking techniques, filling the silence without demanding a response, moving around him with practiced ease despite the danger he represented.

As they finished, Mom wiped a spot of juice from V's hand using her apron—a casual gesture she'd done countless times for Dad and me. One that acknowledged his humanity in a way few people ever bothered to. V froze at the contact, his entire body going rigid like he'd been electrocuted. He lifted the platter and held it steady as she garnished the roast with rosemary sprigs, the movement so gentle it seemed to belong to another man entirely.

"Relax, dear." Mom noticed his rigid posture as they moved toward the dining room. "The roast isn't armed."

His eyes tracked her movements, lingering on the casual confidence with which she navigated her domain.

As they emerged from the kitchen, V's attention shifted, catching on the family photos lining the hallway: me in a graduation cap with my parents standing proudly on either side; a younger version of myself at a spelling bee, Dad's arm draped around my shoulders; a Christmas morning with wrapping paper scattered around my feet. His pace slowed as he was confronted by pieces of a life that never included him.

Mom's wedding china sat on the dining room table—ivory with gold rims, catching crystal light in diamond patterns across the pristine white tablecloth. Fresh lilies and hydrangeas erupted from the crystal vase at the center, their perfume mingling with the aroma of roast beef. Four place settings waited, each fork and knife positioned perfectly.

Dad had already retreated to the head of the table. Amber liquid sloshed in the crystal tumbler clutched between white-knuckled fingers. The bottle of Macallan 18 stood sentinel at his elbow—cork discarded, a promising sign of just how badly he was handling this situation. Deep golden whiskey disappeared down his throat in a single swallow as we entered, his Adam's apple bobbing as he reached for an immediate refill.

"Don't you have a mission tonight?" I asked, concern threading through my words as I watched him pour another drink.

"Don't remind me," he muttered. His eyes never left V, tracking every movement.

Mom reappeared seconds later, biceps straining beneath her cardigan as she balanced an oversized serving platter. V moved, reaching her side and taking the heavy dish from her hands before she could protest. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Oh! Thank you, V. Center of the table is fine."

The silver platter settled on the trivet with a muted clang that made everyone but V flinch. Condensation beaded along Mom's hairline despite her perfect composure, her smile fixed firmly in place. "Would you like some wine, V?"

V shook his head. His massive frame swallowed light as he followed me to the table, making the familiar house feel smaller, darker with each passing second. Each step reminded me of the vibrator still nestled secretly between my thighs, controlled by the phone resting in his pocket. My pulse quickened with something beyond anxiety, heat flooding my face at the mere thought of him turning it on.

Dad's face contorted into something ugly as V pulled out my chair, something he must've learned from all the romcoms he watched with me.

Mom returned carrying a second platter—garlic mashed potatoes and dinner rolls—setting them down before taking her seat across from Dad. V settled into the chair beside me, opposite Mom, his massive frame making the dining chair look like doll furniture. His plate remained empty except for the thick slices of the roast he'd carved earlier.

"It's my famous garlic mashed potatoes!" Mom announced with forced cheerfulness, proudly offering the bowl to V with both hands.

He stared at the contents like she'd offered him poison, pushing it away without a word, his focus unwavering on the bloody meat. "Carnivore."

Dad barely suppressed a bitter laugh at Mom's crestfallen expression. "Of course you only eat animal products."

"Trevor," Mom hissed, her eyes wide with warning. "V, honey," Mom's tone remained determinedly cheerful as she passed the basket of dinner rolls my way, "do you need a straw for your drink?"

"No," he replied flatly.

As I reached for a dinner roll, V's fingers brushed my shoulder. Dad's jaw tightened immediately, a muscle flickering beneath the skin as he eyed the contact.

"Trevor." Mom's warning tone carried years of marital shorthand as she began serving the roast.

"Claudia."

"You promised you'd behave."

"Didn't say how I would behave." Dad's eyes remained fixed on V's hands as they moved over the table. His gaze flickered to mine with every shift in my posture, darkening dangerously when V's fingers disappeared beneath the tablecloth, resting heavily on my thigh.

"I wish I could drink more," he muttered, glaring at V. "But I have to be somewhat sober for this stupid mission."

"Do you enjoy cooking?" Mom asked with genuine interest, clearly trying to ease the hostility crackling between the men.

V stared at her for a long moment, the silence stretching uncomfortably until it seemed he might not answer at all. "With Oakley."

"Do you like puzzles?" Mom tried again, determination in her smile.

"With Oakley."

"What about board games?"

"With Oakley."

"Fishing! Men like fishing, right?"

V paused, his eyes narrowing slightly behind the mask. "With Oakley."

"Next thing you know, he'll only breathe with Oakley." Dad snorted into his whiskey, the liquor loosening his restraint. "You don't even know how to fish."

V's knife paused mid-cut, his eyes lifting slowly to meet Dad's challenging stare. "I know how to kill you with a butter knife."

Mom blinked rapidly, fork frozen halfway to her mouth. The statement wasn't delivered with anger or threat—just calm certainty, like commenting on the weather. That made it infinitely more terrifying.

Great. Ten minutes in and we'd already reached death threats. Maybe if I threw myself from the nearest window, they'd stop long enough to scrape me off the pavement.

My fork clattered to the floor when V's hand brushed the inside of my thigh dangerously close to where the vibrator was. Mom gave me a questioning look as V reached to serve me more food.

"You know," Mom said brightly, desperation coloring her voice, "it might be good if you two went on a mission together. Give you a chance to really get to know each other."

Dad blanched, his face draining of color so quickly I thought he might pass out, whiskey sloshing over the rim of his glass as his hand shook. "Are you insane?"

"No," V said flatly, his rejection overlapping with Dad's outburst.

"Jesus Christ," Dad finally said, setting down his utensils with careful control that belied the rage simmering beneath his surface. "Do you have a personality beyond my daughter? Any interests? Hobbies? Thoughts that don't center around her?"

V watched him with cold calculation, head tilting slightly as if considering the question seriously. "No."

Dad stood, chair rolling behind him until it hit the wall. "You think you can protect her better than I can? Where were you when—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching so tight a vein pulsed visibly at his temple.

V went perfectly still, the only movement the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Something crossed his eyes—not remorse, he wasn't capable of that. Recognition, perhaps. Acknowledgment that his absence had nearly cost me everything. It wasn't his fault, though.

My fingers instinctively touched my concealed jawline, and his gaze tracked the movement, lingering on the makeup I'd carefully applied to hide what we both knew existed beneath.

"Enough." Mom's voice cut through the discord. Her eyes locked with V's in a way few dared before turning to Dad. "My daughter isn't something to be fought over like territory."

Dad immediately settled at Mom's words, his hand finding hers across the table, gripping tight enough to whiten knuckles. His rage at V remained evident in every tense line of his body, but he respected her intervention without question.

"She has you in her life now," Mom continued, steady under his scrutiny despite the slight wobble in her voice. "We need to find a way to make this work. So please, just try to get along."

Dad's laugh held no humor, but he directed it solely at V, a sound like broken glass. "Work? After everything he's done? After what he is?"

"Yes, Trevor." Mom hissed through clenched teeth. She turned to V, desperation making her smile too bright. "How do you unwind after a long day, V?"

"Watching Oakley sleep."

Dad's half-empty glass hit the table with enough force to crack the stem, amber liquid sloshing over the rim as he stood, palms smacking against the wood with a violence that made all the dishes rattle. "We're done trying to get to know each other."

"Okay..." Mom's smile strained at the seams, her complexion ashen. "Looks like you're his entire hobby list. It's good to have someone this devoted to you!"

If you only knew, Mom. At this rate, I'd never visit again—and possibly would need to change my identity and move to another continent.

His subtle movement caught my eye then—V's fingers sliding into his pocket before pulling out his phone. My stomach dropped as understanding crashed through me, heat flooding my face as his thumb hovered over the display. My pulse quickened, fight-or-flight responses kicking in as his gaze lifted to meet mine. He tilted his head just slightly, a silent warning of what was about to happen.

When he pressed down, the vibration sparked to life. He increased the intensity with another subtle swipe, never breaking eye contact, claiming me silently while my parents remained oblivious across the table.

"Oakley?" Mom's voice seemed to come from miles away, penetrating the fog building in my body. "I asked how the bakery renovations are coming along."

I gripped my fork tighter, thighs clenching involuntarily as the vibrations intensified without warning. "F-fine! Everything's fine!" My voice betrayed me, pitch higher than normal as pleasure coiled low in my belly. "W-We're making g-good progress."

Dad's concerned gaze fixed on me from across the table. "You alright, sweetheart?"

The vibrations intensified gradually, building from a whisper to a persistent hum that demanded attention. My fork slipped slightly between suddenly numb fingers. "J-Just tired."

"Are you sure you're okay? You're looking a bit flushed." Mom observed, maternal concern creasing her brow as she leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. The buzz intensified again, enough to make my toes curl painfully inside my shoes. V's finger moved across his phone screen, the vibrator's rhythm changing to something sharper, more focused, until my peripheral vision blurred.

"Y-Yes!" My knee jerked upward involuntarily, bumping the underside of the table hard enough to rattle silverware. V's eyes darkened fractionally, pupils expanding to swallow the gray. Without looking down, his thumb shifted again, intensifying the sensations until electricity raced up my spine. My water glass wobbled as my hand shook, liquid sloshing over the rim onto pristine white tablecloth.

"Trevor, I told you the table's wobbly," Mom sighed, dabbing at the spill with her napkin. "I've been asking you to fix it for months."

Dad stared at her incredulously. "The table isn't?—"

"I-I'm just clumsy tonight." I interrupted, forcing steadiness into my voice as another pulse shot through me, stronger than the last. V took this time to put his elbows on the table, pretending to scroll through his phone.

"V, it's rude to be on your phone at the dinner table," Dad said, each word clipped.

"Okay." V's response dripped with mock compliance as he continued staring at the screen. Dad's knuckles whitened around his water glass, the crystal protesting with a faint high-pitched whine.

V's shoulders lifted in a barely perceptible shrug as he adjusted something on the screen. Instantly, the vibrations kicked up another notch, transforming from teasing to torturous in a heartbeat.

"P-Please," I hissed under my breath, too quietly for my parents to hear. He didn't react. The vibrator pulsed with renewed intensity, making white sparks burst behind my eyelids. My teeth clamped together hard enough to crack, fighting to cage the sounds clawing up my throat.

His hand slid beneath the tablecloth, finding my thigh unerringly in the dark. His palm seared through denim like a brand, each callused ridge distinct against my skin. He squeezed—not gently for comfort but crushing for ownership, fingertips digging into muscle hard enough to leave fingerprints.

"I—" My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else, strangled and desperate. I cleared my throat, fighting for control as another wave threatened to drag me under. "I-I might need to lie down for a minute."

Dad half-rose from his chair, concern momentarily overriding his hatred for V. "Your room's just like you left it. Do you want some water? Medicine?"

"I'll take care of her." V's eyes remained fixed on me, outwardly impassive while he systematically dismantled my composure with his thumb on the phone screen.

"J-Just need a moment," I stammered, pushing back from the table as another wave of sensation so intense it nearly dropped me to my knees.

I bolted before anyone could ask more questions, nearly stumbling up the stairs as the vibrations continued their merciless assault on my senses. Each step sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core as the device pressed harder against my swollen flesh. My knees threatened to buckle completely as the vibrations intensified without warning, pulsating relentlessly against over sensitized nerves. I gripped the banister to keep from collapsing. The toy between my thighs hummed ruthlessly, its intensity shifting with each step—V playing me from afar like a marionette.

By the time I reached my childhood bedroom, I was panting uncontrollably, damp heat spreading through my panties and soaking into my jeans. My fingers trembled violently as I fumbled with the doorknob, desperation making me clumsy as another wave crashed through me.

The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I collapsed onto the bed, face pressed into the familiar quilt that still smelled faintly of strawberry detergent and innocence. The contrast between this sanctuary of childhood memories and the wicked torment between my legs made everything more forbidden—more intense. A stuffed bear watched accusingly from my shelf, its glass eyes reflecting judgment as I writhed against the mattress, seeking friction to ease the ache building within me.

The vibrator surged without warning, ramping up to a punishing rhythm that tore a strangled moan from my throat. I bit down on the quilt, muffling the sounds that threatened to escape as pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak. I'd been teetering on the edge for what felt like hours, never quite allowed to fall.

Below, voices rose in heated argument—my father's barely contained fury clashing with V's measured, deadly calm. Then the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the stairs—deliberate, measured, unhurried. V's tread, as distinctive as a death knell. My heart hammered wildly against my ribs, anticipation and fear tangling into a knot beneath my sternum.

The bedroom door opened and closed with a soft click that somehow rang louder than a gunshot. He stood motionless by the door, watching me squirm against the bed, his eyes devouring every twitch, every tremor, every desperate arch of my spine. My hips bucked involuntarily as the vibrations pulsed harder, slicking my inner thighs.

The vibrations stopped abruptly, leaving behind a silence so profound it felt like drowning. My flesh throbbed painfully, abandoned at the precipice of release, nerves crying out for completion that didn't come.

"Testing it," he explained, his voice a low growl that scraped along my nerve endings like sandpaper. He strode to the bed, mattress dipping beneath his weight as he positioned himself at the edge, close enough that the heat from his body radiated against my skin, but not touching—not yet.

He stood over me, unmoving, watching as I tried to regain control of my breathing. His thumb hovered over his phone screen, a silent threat of what he could do with the slightest pressure.

I managed to sit up, painfully aware of how I must look—flushed, disheveled, pupils blown wide with arousal I didn't want to feel. "I-In front of my parents?"

"They didn't notice."

"They saw something was wrong!" Embarrassment burned across my skin as my voice cracked with frustrated humiliation.

His face lowered until our breaths mingled, his mask brushing against my cheek as he inhaled deeply, scenting the arousal that radiated from my skin.

"Prove you don't want this," he challenged, his eyes burning into mine, demanding honesty. "Tell your body to stop begging for me."

My hips betrayed me, rising toward his touch of their own volition, seeking contact with an urgency that humiliated and thrilled me in equal measure. "Please," the single syllable falling between us like a confession.

The word's ambiguity darkened his gaze, pupils expanding until only a thin rim of gray remained. Without looking away, he tapped his phone screen once, and the vibrator hummed back to life—stronger than before, demanding and relentless against my oversensitized flesh.

"I could stop," his voice ragged. "But you'd miss this more than I would."

His fingers skimmed the delicate lace of my underwear, a teasing friction sending shivers dancing across my hips. Heat bloomed beneath each slow, deliberate stroke, anticipation coiling deep in my core. The vibrator's cool surface pressed harder against my sensitive nerves as he adjusted its position enough to make my thighs jerk and lock around nothing. When he dialed the intensity higher, deep vibrations shot straight to my core, bypassing thought completely.

"Please—" The plea broke from me, raw and desperate, my voice cracking under the weight of want. I arched toward him instinctively as he dialed the vibrations higher still, pleasure tightening fiercely beneath my skin.

"Your parents are downstairs." His whisper sent goosebumps up my arms.

"I—I d-don't—ah!—c-care." Words scattered between gasps as another wave crashed through me. Twenty-eight days since our wedding night. Twenty-eight days without his touch, my skin craving him even as my mind tried to deny it—a "space" that had started as mercy but now felt like punishment. My hips jerked desperately, pressing shamelessly into the unrelenting vibrations, muscles spasming as need spiraled sharply out of control.

V leaned closer, the heat of his body enveloping mine, every breath pulling him deeper into my awareness. He rested one strong hand on my thigh, thumb stroking slow, possessive circles against my skin. The surgical mask concealed most of his face, but those eyes missed nothing—not the quivering muscles in my thighs, not the sweat beading on my skin, not the desperate arch of my spine as I chased whatever he controlled.

He increased the intensity sharply, drawing out a ragged cry as heat burst through my entire body, muscles contracting. My back bowed sharply off the mattress, a strangled sound tearing raw from my throat. My fingers twisted desperately in the quilt, nails digging into fabric as blinding sensation blurred my senses, spiraling beyond reason. I couldn't tell if I was trying to hold on—or come apart faster.

"M-my God—V—I c-can't—" Nothing coherent made it past my lips—only gasps.

Saliva spilled from the corner of my mouth, hot and wet against my cheek before soaking into cotton beneath me—evidence of my complete surrender to whatever he chose to give or withhold. Another humiliation to add to the growing collection.

V loomed above me, his massive frame blocking out the ceiling light, casting his face in shadow except for those endless dark eyes that never blinked, never wavered. The mask rose and fell with each measured breath as he studied my unraveling with scientific fascination. His shoulders stretched impossibly wide from my vantage point on the bed, leather jacket shifting slightly as he shifted his weight. One hand still held the remote while the other hung at his side, fingers curled loosely around his baseball bat.

"Drooling for me." The observation carried no disgust, only reverent possession. From his height, he consumed every detail of my breakdown—memorizing, treasuring each shameless reaction I couldn't control.

My body convulsed violently around nothing, vision fracturing as pleasure stole breath and reason. I no longer belonged to myself—I answered only to him, to the patterns he created with that remote. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, tracking saltwater paths that mingled with spit as my lungs fought for oxygen, leaving me gasping and spent beneath his shadow.

When the shock finally subsided, leaving me hollow and gasping, V watched me with that same clinical detachment, his expression unchanged behind the mask.

And I hated how much I needed it. Needed him. Even now. In that instant, I didn't just belong to him—I belonged to the hunger inside me he'd awakened.

When the tremors finally subsided, leaving me hollow and gasping, he switched off the vibrator with merciless abruptness. The sudden absence left nerves screaming in confusion, still sparking with energy that had nowhere to go. Before breath returned to my lungs, strong hands clamped around my ankles, yanking me toward the edge of the bed with savage efficiency.

The sudden movement left no time for resistance or thought. My upper body sprawled across the mattress while my hips aligned perfectly with the edge, feet barely brushing the floor. The position left nothing hidden, nothing protected—exposed completely for his inspection and use.

V wedged his massive frame between my spread thighs, rough denim scraping already oversensitized flesh. His erection pressed against my core through the fabric, iron-hard and radiating heat. He rocked his hips deliberately, the seam of his jeans rasping against swollen flesh, the friction both punishment and promise.

His fist twisted in my hair, dragging my head back with the kind of control only he could make feel sacred—pain-tipped, reverent, possessive. His other arm braced beside my head, caging me beneath him. His presence consumed everything—the scent of leather and gunpowder filling my lungs, his weight pressing me deeper into the mattress, his breath scorching my neck even through that black surgical mask.

"Twenty-eight days," he whispered into my ear. "Twenty-eight days watching you move through my house. Wearing my ring. Sleeping in our bed. Just out of reach."

The movement of his hips grew more demanding, more insistent. The rough denim created a maddening friction against my most sensitive areas with each thrust, nerve endings firing wildly. His grip tightened in my hair, scalp burning as my spine arched at his command.

"Every night," he continued, voice dropping to that register that bypassed rational thought and drove straight into primal need, "I thought about this. About spreading you open. About making you take every inch. About reminding you exactly who you belong to."

His free hand slid beneath my shirt, palm covering my breast through thin cotton. Calluses caught and dragged across sensitive skin, nipple pebbling instantly against his rough palm. My jaw ground shut under the pressure of holding back sounds threatening to escape, acutely aware of voices drifting up from downstairs.

"V," my hips pushed back against the rigid outline of his arousal, seeking relief from the emptiness that yawned within me. "P-please."

"Please what?" His hips pressed deliberately against mine, the heavy ridge of his arousal dragging exquisitely along my sensitive flesh. "Tell me exactly what you need, wife."

I couldn't meet his eyes, shame and desire warring for dominance. My knees pressed together, hands curling against the sheets like I could hide the truth I'd already given him.

"I need..." Air rasped through my constricted throat, heat spreading across my face even as wetness gathered between my thighs. "Y-You."

His zipper rasped open, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. Fabric rustled, then the hot, velvet-skinned weight of his arousal pressed against my entrance. He didn't push forward, just let me feel his size, his heat, making me acutely aware of the emptiness he could fill.

My eyes found his—black holes that consumed light, consumed reason, consumed everything but the truth. The words formed in my chest, not my head, rising up from somewhere I couldn't control anymore.

His pupils dilated until only the thinnest ring of gray remained, something ancient and wounded flashing behind them—hunger mixed with something that might have been victory, might have been reverence.

He surged forward, filling me completely with a single, powerful thrust, both of us gasping sharply at the overwhelming sensation of finally being joined again. The sudden stretch burned exquisitely, body struggling to accommodate him after weeks without. My spine arched sharply, a cry building that he immediately silenced, palm pressing roughly over my mouth. His skin tasted of salt and metal—a reminder of what those hands had done, what they were capable of.

"Fuck," he hissed through clenched teeth, the rare profanity revealing how deeply affected he was. "Still so tight. So fucking perfect."

His hips remained still for several heartbeats, allowing adjustment to his intrusion, restraint visible in corded neck tendons, in the subtle trembling of powerful thighs. Each stroke drove me further up the mattress until his arm locked around my waist, anchoring me in place for his assault. The headboard slammed against the wall despite his attempts to muffle the sound. Pressure coiled tight inside me again, impossible after such an intense orgasm, yet my body responded to him like it was made for this purpose alone.

"Bite down," he ordered, shifting his arm against my mouth. "Don't let Daddy hear what his little girl really sounds like when she's taking cock."

The crude language ignited something feral within me. Teeth sank into the sleeve of his shirt as he drove deeper, pace bordering on brutal. His mask dragged across my neck, fabric catching sensitive skin, adding texture to the overwhelming fullness stretching me beyond capacity.

"Your body begs better than your mouth." He murmured, adjusting the angle to hit that spot that made stars explode behind my eyelids.

The bed creaked loudly—a dangerous sound in the quiet house. V adjusted immediately, hooking my leg over his shoulder to change the angle, allowing upward thrusts rather than forward, minimizing the mattress's betrayal. As he shifted, his cheekbone caught the sharp corner of my bedside table, slicing a neat line just below his eye.

Blood welled instantly, a crimson streak against pale skin. He showed no reaction to the injury, driving into me, hitting places that made nerve endings light like a detonated wire with each thrust.

That blood awakened something primal—recognition that even without pain, he could bleed. That something human existed beneath the monster's mask. My fingers reached up, touching the wet warmth on his cheek before bringing it to my lips, tasting copper and salt on my tongue.

"You shouldn't want that." A beat. Then softer, darker—"But you do."

His pupils expanded to bottomless pits at the gesture—obsessed, consuming, ravenous. "Mine," he growled, pace accelerating as control frayed at the edges. "Mine to mark. Mine to fill. Mine to ruin. I'll make you crave everything you hate wanting," he breathed against my ear, his voice raw.

My teeth bit down harder as he drove in harder, deeper, his blood filling my mouth as another orgasm built with frightening speed. His rhythm grew more urgent, more primal.

His hand moved from the headboard to grip my hip with bruising force, fingers digging into soft flesh as he held me in place for each devastating thrust. The other remained pressed against my mouth, stifling sounds that threatened to escape with each impact.

"Mine," he growled with each stroke, the word becoming a mantra. "This is mine. All of it. Say it."

He shifted his hand just enough to free my mouth. "Y-Yours!"

The admission unleashed something feral in him—a wildness glimpsed only in unguarded moments. His hips stuttered, rhythm faltering as my inner muscles contracted around him, milking his length with each pulse of my orgasm. He buried himself to the hilt with a muffled groan, his release flooding me in hot pulses, marking me from the inside out.

His breath felt hot and ragged against my neck, mask damp with condensation, his massive frame pressing me into the mattress as he withdrew.

I remained sprawled across the bed, muscles liquid, unable to move. The mirror across the room reflected a stranger—hair wild, lips swollen, thighs glistening. He gently eased away, brushing his thumb tenderly over my inner thigh before carefully fastening his jeans, eyes locked on mine in a silent promise that tonight was only the beginning. I remained sprawled across the bed, muscles liquid, unable to move.

"For next time," V picked up the vibrator from where it had fallen to the floor, examining it before pocketing it. "When your cramps come."

"How am I supposed to go back down there now?" I whispered, attempting to smooth my appearance with trembling hands, reality crashing hard.

"Bathroom first." His tone carried no room for argument. I stared up at him, confusion creasing my brow. "UTI." Had he been researching things? "Now, Oakley."

Mind on autopilot, I stepped into the bathroom, back hitting the door before sliding down. Dropping my face in my hands, shame shot through me.

I just let my husband fuck me.