Chapter Twenty-One - Seraphina #2
“Yeah, I hate you,” I spit, but the words dissolve into a moan as his hand slips between my thighs.
His fingers find me wet, needy, and he groans—a sound full of dark satisfaction. “You hate that you want this. Hate that you’re mine.”
I buck against him, nails digging into his arms. “Shut up!”
He silences me with his mouth, his tongue claiming mine, swallowing every sound. His hand moves faster, coaxing pleasure from my body in spite of myself. I gasp, twisting against the chain, grinding down on his palm.
“Please—” I bite my lip, refusing to say more, refusing to beg. But he reads my body, knows every twitch, every shudder.
When he finally frees himself, shoving his trousers down, he pins me with his gaze—dark, hungry, wild. He pushes my knees apart, fitting his body between them, pressing his leaking cock into me in one rough thrust.
The force knocks the air from my lungs, the chain clattering above my head. He holds me down, thrusting hard, setting a pace that is brutal, unyielding, just this side of punishing.
I meet him stroke for stroke, hips rising to meet each thrust, the friction building until I can’t hold back the cries tearing from my throat.
“You’re mine,” he snarls, biting the curve of my shoulder. “Say it.”
“No,” I gasp, but I cling to him, nails raking his back, legs locked around his waist. Every movement is a struggle against him, against myself, against the truth that I want this, that I need it.
He pulls almost all the way out, then slams back in, grinding against the spot that makes me see stars. “Say it,” he growls again.
I shake my head, but my body gives him the answer I can’t. I come undone, the orgasm crashing over me in waves, my cries filling the room. He follows, spilling into me with a guttural groan, his hands holding me so tight I’ll wear the marks for days.
When it’s over, he stays above me, chest heaving, sweat slick on his skin. He brushes hair from my face, his expression softer, rawer than I’ve ever seen.
I turn my head, tears stinging my eyes, but I don’t ask him to leave. He presses a kiss to my temple, his breath shuddering. The chain is still locked tight around my wrist, but for the first time, I don’t feel entirely trapped.
He slides down beside me, arm heavy over my waist, anchoring me to him. I close my eyes, letting the aftershocks roll through me, hating that I want him, hating that I don’t want him to stop.
In the heavy silence afterward, Miron’s breath slows against my neck.
I lie perfectly still, the chain cool and unyielding, my skin burning from his touch and from the shame that follows pleasure.
His hand lingers at my waist, thumb stroking a soothing pattern that feels dangerously close to comfort.
I should hate this, hate him, hate myself for the want that still simmers in my belly. Instead, I let my eyes drift shut, listening to the dull thud of his heartbeat and the far-off sounds of the house settling around us.
A gentle knock interrupts the quiet. I tense, instinctively pulling the sheet up to my chest. Miron rises without a word, slipping on his shirt and trousers.
He moves to the door and opens it just enough for a maid to slip inside, eyes cast to the floor.
She carries a tray of water, fresh bread, slices of apple, and a small bowl of soup.
She sets it on the nightstand, her gaze never lifting to mine.
“Miss, would you like to eat?” she asks softly, voice barely more than a whisper. “Or some water?”
My mouth is dry, my stomach hollow with hunger, but I can’t summon the will to take anything from this place, not now, not after everything. I shake my head, bringing the covers up to shield my body.
“No, thank you,” I murmur, barely audible.
She dips her head, gathers her apron, and slips back out, the door closing softly behind her. Miron watches her go, his expression unreadable. When he turns back to me, there’s a question in his eyes. Concern, or calculation, I can’t tell.
I pull the blanket higher, curling in on myself, the chain rattling against the headboard. I want to be left alone, to lick my wounds, to figure out who I am after this night. He sits at the edge of the bed, silent for a long moment.
Then he reaches for my hand, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. I don’t pull away, but I don’t move closer either.
The meal sits untouched beside us, a quiet offering I cannot accept. I stare at the wall, waiting for morning, waiting for anything that might let me feel human again.
***
The hours pass slowly, marked by the shifting shadows on the wall and the faint clink of the chain whenever I move.
The meal goes cold, untouched, and Miron eventually leaves the room without a word, shutting the door with a quiet finality that still feels like a lock.
I drift between uneasy sleep and restless wakefulness, haunted by the weight of everything that’s happened. When the door finally opens again, it’s not Miron who enters, but Pavel.
He carries a set of keys in one hand and a bundle of fresh clothes in the other—simple things, a loose blouse and trousers, clean underthings, even a soft towel. He doesn’t meet my gaze as he approaches the bed, his face set in that blank, almost gentle neutrality I’ve seen him wear before.
“Time to wash and dress, Sera,” he says quietly. “You have ten minutes.” His words are firm, but there’s no edge of threat.
He crouches by the headboard, unlocking the chain with a practiced motion. The cold metal slips from my wrist, leaving behind a red mark that I rub absently, resisting the urge to wince.
I move to the en suite bathroom, towel and clothes in hand.
Pavel turns his back, remaining in the bedroom.
He gives me privacy, but I know he’ll be there the whole time.
One last guard between me and any escape.
I close the bathroom door, locking it out of habit even though I know it won’t do any good.
The hot water stings at first, prickling over bruises and sore muscles, washing away the sweat and the scent of him.
I scrub harder than necessary, wanting to erase everything—guilt, want, fear—but the ache lingers beneath my skin.
I let the water run until it turns cold, only stepping out when my skin is pink and raw.
I dress quickly, hands trembling as I button the blouse, trying not to look at the bruises blooming along my thighs and wrists. I wrap the towel around my hair, take one last steadying breath, and step back into the bedroom.
Pavel stands near the window, facing away. When he hears the door open, he turns, nods, and motions for me to sit on the edge of the bed.
He doesn’t comment on the marks, the state of the room, or the untouched food. He just checks the chain, now coiled neatly on the headboard, as if reminding me that it could go back on at any moment.
“You’ll be called for soon,” he says, voice even. “Rest if you can.” Then he moves to the door, giving me one last look—a flicker of sympathy or regret, quickly masked—before he leaves me alone with the silence.