Chapter Nineteen - Vivienne
I wake tangled in sheets I don’t remember climbing into, still wearing scraps of white silk from the night before. The dress is torn, wrinkled, the veil discarded on the floor.
The rage from the ceremony hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s sharpened overnight, searing through my veins the moment I open my eyes and see him sitting at the edge of the bed, already dressed, already composed, like nothing’s been shattered.
The ring on my finger feels like a shackle. A pawn dressed in white. That’s all I was yesterday, paraded into the lie he created without asking, without giving me a choice.
My voice cuts through the silence, raw and unsteady. “You think this is protection?”
He doesn’t look at me right away. His profile is carved in shadow, jaw tight, hands loose on his knees. Calm. Always calm.
“I asked you a question,” I snap, sitting up, silk slipping off my shoulder. “Why? Why the lie, why the performance, why chain me to you?”
When he doesn’t answer fast enough, fury bursts out of me. I snatch the vase from the nightstand and hurl it across the room. It shatters against the wall, shards scattering across the floor. He dodges it smoothly, unfazed, eyes locking with mine.
“You should’ve known,” he says finally, voice low, even. “You should’ve known what I’d do to keep you alive.”
The silence that follows is sharp, electric, humming between us like a live wire. My chest heaves, my throat burns.
“Keep me alive?” I spit, rising to my feet, fists clenched. “You’re not a savior, Alexei. You don’t get to play God with my life.”
He stands, slow, deliberate, towering over me. “You’d be dead if I hadn’t spoken.”
“This isn’t about saving me. It’s about control. Ownership. You want me bound to you, marked as yours, like some prize you dragged from the fire.”
His eyes narrow, storm-gray and dangerous. “I did what I had to.”
“No,” I hiss, stepping closer until I can feel the heat of his body. “Saying it doesn’t make it true.”
Something cracks in his expression, subtle but sharp. He leans down, his voice clipped, hard. “The Council doesn’t care about your vengeance, your grief, your pride. They would’ve put a bullet in your head and gone on with their business. I gave them no choice but to leave you standing.”
I shake, more from the tremor in my chest than from rage. “You’re a coward. You hide behind power. Behind codes. Behind lies.”
His mouth tightens. He takes one more step, closing the distance until the air between us is gone. His words come low, biting. “You’re my wife now. Act like it.”
The silence snaps.
Our mouths crash together, violent, desperate.
There’s no tenderness, no hesitation, only fire.
His lips bruise against mine, my teeth scrape his skin.
I claw at him, nails raking down his chest, dragging fabric with them.
I don’t want him gentle. I want to burn, to erase everything, to feel nothing but this.
He pins me against the wall, one hand gripping my wrist, the other digging into my hip. I arch against him, gasping into his mouth, biting, fighting, surrendering all at once.
It’s not forgiveness. It’s not love. It’s need, sharp and searing, born from fury and betrayal and something far more dangerous lurking beneath.
We don’t stop.
His mouth crushes mine, swallowing every curse, every scream, every bitter word I wanted to throw at him. His hands are rough, relentless, pinning me against the wall. I fight him, nails raking down his arms, biting at his lip, but it’s not to stop him. It’s to match him, to give as much as I take.
I hate that my body melts against his, that the fury turns molten the moment his tongue slides against mine. My back slams harder into the wall as his hips press forward, the thick heat of him grinding against me through our clothes.
A sound tears from my throat—half rage, half need—and he growls into my mouth like he’s been waiting for this.
I shove at his chest, breaking the kiss for air, but before I can speak, he grabs my jaw, forcing my gaze to his. His eyes blaze with a hunger so sharp it steals my words.
“You want this,” he rasps, voice low and dark, “no matter how much you hate it.”
I don’t answer. My silence is enough. My nails curl in his shirt, dragging him back down to me.
He lifts me in one fluid motion, my legs wrapping around his waist, the wall at my back holding me steady. The sheer strength of him terrifies and thrills me. His mouth moves down my throat, biting, sucking hard enough to leave marks. I throw my head back, gasping, clawing at his hair.
He carries me to the bed and throws me down, not gently, but not cruelly either.
I bounce once on the mattress, glaring at him through heavy lashes, chest heaving.
He strips his shirt off in one swift pull, muscles carved in shadow, scars scattered like warnings across his skin. My breath catches despite myself.
I don’t wait for him. I shove the straps of the ruined silk dress down my shoulders, baring my breasts, daring him to look.
He does. His gaze darkens, his jaw tight, and then he’s on me, mouth closing around my nipple, tongue teasing, teeth scraping.
My back arches into him, a moan ripping free despite the shame burning hot in my chest.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, but the words dissolve when his hand slides down, shoving my skirt up, fingers finding me wet and ready.
He groans against my skin. “Gladly.”
I want to deny it, to spit the lie in his face, but my body betrays me. His fingers stroke me through soaked lace, drawing circles that make my hips jerk against his hand. My breath shatters, my nails dig into his shoulders.
He pushes the lace aside and slides a finger inside me, then another, stretching me, curling until I’m gasping. He kisses me again, swallowing every sound I make as his hand works faster, harder, fucking me with his fingers until I’m trembling beneath him.
The orgasm rips through me sudden and sharp, my body clenching tight around him, my cry muffled against his mouth. He doesn’t stop. He drives me higher, milking every shudder, every gasp, until I collapse back against the mattress, shaking.
He pulls his fingers free and licks them, eyes locked on mine. The sight makes heat flood me all over again.
“Take the rest off,” he orders, voice gravel.
I hesitate, pride warring with desire. Then I rip the dress down, dragging the torn silk over my hips and legs, kicking it to the floor. His eyes roam over me, slow, claiming, and I want to slap him for it, want to kiss him harder for it.
He strips the rest of his clothes in one sharp motion. My eyes widen at the sight of him: thick, hard, already leaking. The sheer size of him makes my stomach twist, but the ache between my legs only grows sharper.
He crawls over me, caging me beneath him, pressing the blunt head of his cock against my entrance. He pauses, eyes on mine, waiting.
“Fuck me now,” I whisper, pulling him closer.
He thrusts into me hard, burying himself deep. My scream rips through the room, nails carving down his back. He groans low, head dropping to my shoulder, his body shuddering at the feel of me wrapped tight around him.
He pulls back, slams into me again, harder. The bed creaks beneath us, the air thick with gasps, groans, the slap of skin against skin. He sets a brutal pace, fucking me deep, relentless, his hips pounding into mine. I claw at him, bite him, mark him, matching every thrust with one of my own.
Pleasure and pain blur until I can’t tell them apart. My body burns, every nerve alive, every sound I make torn between moan and sob.
“You’re mine,” he growls against my ear, thrusting harder.
“Never,” I gasp, even as I cling to him, even as my body begs for more.
His thumb finds my clit, rubbing fast, sharp, dragging me over the edge again. I scream, convulsing around him, my orgasm crashing hard enough to steal my breath. He follows with a guttural groan, slamming deep one last time as he spills inside me, his whole body trembling above mine.
We collapse together, tangled in sheets, sweat slicking our skin. His chest heaves against mine, his breath hot on my throat. My nails are still buried in his skin, his marks burn across mine.
The silence after is deafening.
I stare at the ceiling, rage and shame and hunger twisting in my chest. I tell myself this has to be the last time, that I won’t let him break me again.
I said that last time too.
The weight of him lingers long after he rolls off me, long after I tug the sheets over my bare skin as though thin fabric can shield me from what just happened.
My body is still humming, nerves raw, thighs trembling, but my mind is a battlefield.
The room is filled with the scent of sweat and sex, the sound of our ragged breaths, and underneath it all a silence so heavy it presses down on my chest.
I stare at the ceiling, willing myself to feel nothing. To be stone. To pretend that what we just did was a weapon, not a surrender. Yet my body betrays me. Every throb, every ache reminds me how badly I wanted it, how fiercely I let myself drown in him.
Beside me, he props himself up on an elbow, eyes tracing me in the dark. I can feel the weight of his gaze, even though I refuse to meet it. His hand hovers near my hip, not quite touching. I hate that a part of me wishes he would.
Finally, he speaks, voice rough, low. “You knew this would happen.”
My laugh is sharp, bitter. “You think you’re that irresistible?”
His mouth curves in something close to a smile, but his eyes stay cold. “I think you wanted me as much as I wanted you. Hate doesn’t erase that.”
I roll to my side, turning my back to him, clutching the sheet tight around me. “Whatever you say.”
The words are steady, but my voice cracks just enough to betray me. He doesn’t press. He lets the silence settle again, though I know he doesn’t believe me. Worse, I don’t believe myself either.
Time crawls. Neither of us sleeps. He gets up eventually, moving quietly around the room, pulling his clothes back on and slipping into the en suite. I keep my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, but I feel every shift, every movement.
When the door clicks softly behind him, I finally exhale, the tension spilling out of me all at once. I curl tighter into myself, sheets twisted around my body, shame burning hotter than the afterglow.
My skin still tingles where his hands touched me. My lips still ache from his kisses. My body still aches for more.
I know I’m lying.
Eventually the en suite door creaks open, soft light spilling briefly across the floor before he kills it. My pulse quickens, though I keep my eyes closed and face turned toward the wall. The mattress dips under his weight as he climbs back in, movements quiet, deliberate.
Heat radiates from him immediately, his scent—soap, smoke—curling into the sheets. A moment later his arm slides across my waist, heavy, possessive. My body stiffens, every nerve on edge, but I don’t move.
I keep my breathing even, steady, feigning the rhythm of sleep. His chest presses to my back, his breath grazing my hair, slow and measured. He must know I’m awake. Or maybe he doesn’t care.
The weight of his arm tightens slightly, pulling me closer until there’s no space left between us. My heart thunders, my body betraying me with a rush of warmth low in my stomach.
I lie frozen, torn between yanking his hand away and sinking into the heat of him. In the end I do nothing. I let him hold me, silent, eyes shut tight, pretending.
Pretending I don’t want this. Pretending it means nothing. Pretending I can still hate him.