8. Lachlan
LACHLAN
The lock clicks behind me, and I lean against the door for a moment, my breath coming too fast like I've just run a fucking marathon instead of walking away from my wife.
My wife.
This should be a victory. It should feel like everything I've worked for and fought for and killed for over the past ten years finally has a reason. But instead it feels hollow and empty, like I've won a battle but lost something more important in the process.
She looked at me like I was a stranger. Worse than a stranger—like I was a threat that she needed to protect herself from.
And maybe she's right. Maybe I am dangerous.
Maybe the boy she loved in that garden ten years ago is gone, replaced by this man who's built an empire on violence and blood, and the bodies of everyone who stood in my way.
But I did it for her. All of it, every fucking bit of it, was for her.
And she doesn't even recognize me anymore.
I push away from the door and move down the hallway toward my own room, my footsteps echoing in the quiet of the penthouse.
My room is at the opposite end of the penthouse from hers.
I did that deliberately, putting as much distance between us as possible, because I knew—I fucking knew—that if I was too close I wouldn't be able to stay away, even though she doesn't want me there. Even though she's terrified of me.
The thought makes my chest ache. I've imagined this moment for ten years—imagined having her back, safe in my home where I could protect her and finally make good on the promise I made in that garden.
But I never imagined it would be like this.
I never thought she'd look at me with fear instead of recognition; suspicion instead of relief.
With that hollow emptiness that makes me wonder if the girl I loved is even still in there, or if Gio broke her so completely that there's nothing left to save.
I close the door to my room and lean against it, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. My breathing hasn't slowed, and my cock is painfully hard, well aware that this is my wedding night and I should be well on my way to being inside my wife right now.
I've been hard off and on since I saw her back in the mansion. The sight of her, the closeness after ten years—my arousal is on overdrive. I'm ashamed of it, but at the same time, it feels inevitable.
I've wanted her for ten years, and now she's here.
The desire to have her feels primal, a desperate need that I'm only barely keeping hold of.
I groan as I lean my head back against the door.
I'm aching, so fucking hard it hurts, my cock straining against my pants.
I've been jerking off to the memory of her for ten years, and now, it seems, I'm going to have to do it for another night.
Fuck. I reach down, feverishly undoing my belt and zipper. I need some kind of relief, and I need it now. The moment I free my aching length, I moan, wrapping my hand around it as I close my eyes and imagine it's her hand, exploring me again for the first time in years.
The thought hurts, but it doesn't lessen the jolt of arousal that ripples down my spine. Pre-cum leaks from my tip, sticky against my fingers, and I smear it down my already-wet shaft, breathing hard as I start to stroke.
Thinking about Adriana is painful when she's so close but still so far away, but I can't help it.
I imagine her here with me, that white silk pooling on the floor as her bare body comes into view, all that skin on display for me.
Small, high breasts, tight rosy nipples, the concave dip of her belly and the soft skin of her inner thighs. And between them—
I groan, forcing myself to stroke slowly so that I can try to get some lasting relief.
A quick, messy orgasm won't do much; I'll be hard again in minutes.
I slide my thumb over the tip, hissing through my teeth at the contact, my grip firm as I imagine the wet heat spread across my length is her arousal.
I tighten my fist, imagining it's her pussy, tight around me as I slide into her.
God, it would feel so fucking good. I've almost forgotten what it feels like.
Hot and wet and tight—she wasn't the first woman I'd slept with back then, but there had only been a couple of teenage fumbles before her, and she was the only one that mattered.
The only one that made me feel things I didn't know I was capable of at eighteen.
I remember the look on her face as I pushed inside of her, hear the small gasp she made, like she couldn't quite believe we were doing it, like it was too good to be real.
It was too good to be real. That's why it ended the way it did, with blood and violence, and me being dragged away from her while she screamed my name.
The memory turning dark makes my eyes burn, and my chest hurt, but I can't stop.
My hand moves faster, my breath coming in harsh pants, and I'm not in my room anymore.
I'm in that garden with her, and I'm twenty years old, and she's eighteen again.
We're tangled together on the grass with her dress hiked up around her waist and my hand between her thighs, feeling how wet she is, how ready, how much she wants this despite the danger.
Lachlan, she'd whispered, her voice breathless, aching, full of need. Please.
I gave her what she wanted. I gave her everything, my cock sliding into her virgin body while she clung to me and gasped. I knew she loved me, that she'd always love me, that we'd find a way to be together no matter what it took.
But we didn't find a way. I found a way, ten years too late, and now she's here, and she doesn't want me. She doesn't trust me, doesn't even recognize the man I've become.
My eyes are wet, burning, but I keep my hand going, desperate to come.
My grip tightens, my strokes becoming rougher, more desperate, and I imagine her beneath me.
I imagine her in that bed down the hall, me going to her and unlocking that door.
Stripping that wedding dress off her body and showing her—proving to her—that I'm still the man she loved.
That I'm still capable of being gentle and tender—something other than this violent thing I've had to become to survive.
I imagine her responding. Her hands on my skin, her mouth on mine, her body arching up to meet me as I push inside her. I imagine her saying my name the way she used to, with love and desire, knowing that this is right, that we're right, that we belong together no matter what the world says.
Lachlan.
Her voice in my memory, breathy and desperate and full of need. I love you. I'll always love you.
But she doesn't love me anymore. She doesn't even know me.
The thought should kill my arousal, make me stop.
But it doesn't. It makes it worse, makes the need sharper, more painful, because I know that this might be all I ever get.
This memory of her, this fantasy of what we could have been, this desperate, lonely act of self-pleasure while she's locked in a room down the hall.
My hand moves faster, my hips thrusting up into my grip, and I'm close now, so fucking close. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, my balls tightening, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I imagine her coming with me, her body clenching around my cock, her nails digging into my shoulders, her voice breaking on my name as she falls apart beneath me.
I picture her looking at me afterward with a soft, satisfied expression, like I've given her something she's been waiting for her whole life.
I imagine her loving me again.
The orgasm hits me like a freight train, pleasure slamming through me in waves that leave me gasping.
My hand works me through it, my cum spilling over my fingers and onto my stomach, soaking through my shirt in hot pulses.
For a moment, there's nothing but the physical sensation, the relief.
It feels so good to finally come, and I groan through gritted teeth, stroking and squeezing every drop out until my cock finally goes blessedly limp.
And then it all comes rushing back in a painful wave of reality.
I'm alone in my room, my hand covered in my own cum, my wife locked in a bedroom down the hall because she's too terrified of me to be trusted with freedom.
Our son is sleeping in another room, confused and frightened, probably wondering why his mother married a stranger and why everything has changed so suddenly and violently.
And I'm here, jerking off on my wedding night to memories of a girl who doesn't exist anymore, trying to convince myself that this will get better. That once Adriana understands, once she sees that I'm trying to protect her and she remembers what we had, everything will be okay.
But what if it doesn't get better? What if she never understands or forgives me for taking her, never looks at me with anything other than fear and resentment? What if I've destroyed the only thing I ever wanted by trying too hard to save it?
I clean myself up, stripping off my clothes and tossing them in the hamper, then turn on the shower. The man in the bathroom mirror looks like a stranger—hard-faced, scarred, and dangerous. Not the boy who loved Adriana Santoro in a garden ten years ago.
Not someone she could love back.
Under the hot spray of the shower, as I scrub myself clean, my cock hardens again.
I brace myself against the tile with one hand and reach for it, stroking almost mechanically until I come again.
I know I won't be able to sleep otherwise.
Hopefully two orgasms back to back will be enough to slake the near-painful desire I've felt since the moment I saw her again.