Chapter Nineteen - Isabella
Emil leaves with only a nod. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says. “Change. There’s a nightdress for you.”
Then he shuts the door with a soft click.
I’m alone in a bedroom built for show: walls draped in silk, gold-edged mirrors, candles flickering along the mantel. All of it too bright, too cold.
The bed is enormous, covered in brocade that feels rough beneath my palms. I perch on the edge, wedding dress half undone, bodice loosened, my hands balled in the fabric. I stare at the door as if it might vanish.
The clock on the nightstand ticks out the seconds, each one a hammer-blow to my chest. The silence is alive, breathing, a beast hunting its prey.
My mind races, shoving jagged images at me.
I see the aisle stretching out in front of me, my own feet moving as if someone else was steering them.
Emil’s face, flat and unreadable, as he slid the ring on my finger—a gesture so final I almost laughed.
The crowd, shifting and whispering, all those strangers with sharp smiles watching me as if I were an offering.
I remember the moment he kissed me for the cameras, the press of his mouth against mine—cold, rehearsed, nothing gentle about it. My skin still tingles where he touched me, the memory of it making my stomach turn.
I feel sick, hollow and jittery. I haven’t eaten since yesterday; the untouched tray of food sits on a side table, covered with a silver dome, the scent of rich sauce heavy in the air.
My bouquet lies discarded on a chair, petals bruised and falling apart.
Somewhere deep in the house, music rises and falls, a distant echo of the party I just left. It all feels too far away to matter.
The room itself is unbearable. The heat is stifling, yet goose bumps break out along my arms. Shadows puddle under the wardrobe, crawl up the corners. The air moves in tiny drafts. Every time I shift, the mattress creaks, too loud in the hush.
I wait. It’s a different kind of torture, this waiting. I brace myself for what’s coming, my whole body tensed for violence or humiliation or some act that will finish the story everyone started writing for me the moment my name changed.
I think of stories I heard as a child, stories of men who broke their brides on their wedding night, who wanted only submission. Women who vanished after the wedding, who came back empty, all the fire gone from their eyes. I wonder if I’ll be one of them.
A part of me wants to fight. To claw, to bite, to say something cruel enough to buy me time or space.
I’m so tired. My mouth is dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of it. I press my hands together, digging nails into my palm. The need to scream and the urge to go utterly numb fight for space inside my chest.
The door opens, quietly. No drama. Emil steps inside, suit perfectly tailored, hair still damp, a faint trace of cologne rolling ahead of him. He’s a storm bottled in flesh—imposing, precise, absolutely in control of every muscle.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just watches me. The silence grows thick, hot, sticky. I stare back, defiant as I can muster, and the room seems to contract around us, pulling the walls in closer, trapping every scrap of air.
I expect a jeer, a threat, some biting line to remind me who won. Instead, he slips out of his jacket, folding it with meticulous care and laying it over a chair. He unbuttons his cuffs, one at a time, rolling up his sleeves.
I follow the motion, unable to stop myself. He looks up and our eyes meet—just for a heartbeat. I look away, hating that he can see my fear, that my only weapon is the stubborn refusal to cower, even now.
He doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t gloat.
The quiet builds until I can hear my own breath: shallow, quick, the faintest catch at the end of every exhale.
He’s studying me, cataloging everything—the way I clutch the fabric at my waist, the red marks on my shoulders from the dress, the wildness in my eyes.
I wonder what he sees—a bride, a prisoner, a victory? Or something else entirely?
When he finally crosses the room, his steps are slow, measured.
No threat in them, just the sense of inevitability, the way an avalanche begins with one stone.
I hold myself rigid, determined not to flinch.
The candlelight flickers, catching on the band of his wedding ring, painting gold across his knuckles.
He stops a foot from me. For a moment, there’s nothing but breathing and the faint tick of the clock. I feel every second, every beat, written into my bones.
He doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t even reach for me. Just stands there, gaze heavy, and waits for something neither of us can name.
The silence is the loudest thing in the room.
He sits beside me on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. I tense, every muscle tight as wire, dread prickling over my skin. I expect violence, some cruel proof of ownership… something to finally shatter the last of my pride.
He doesn’t lunge. He turns to me slowly, lifts his hand, and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
The touch is solid, not rough, but there’s nothing gentle in it either.
It’s assessment, not comfort—he tips my face up, his gaze tracing over every feature, cataloging my fear, my fury, my unwillingness to break.
“Look at me,” he says, voice low and steady. The command is absolute. I force myself to meet his eyes. They’re gray and cold, the same eyes I saw at the altar, unflinching, impossibly steady.
Inside, I’m chaos. My thoughts splinter.
I hate his touch, hate the way my pulse hammers beneath my skin, hate how my body is sharp with shame and something darker, stranger.
I feel myself bracing—waiting for humiliation, for pain, for the fulfillment of every horror story whispered by women in gilded cages.
I won’t beg. I won’t weep. I’ll grit my teeth and survive whatever comes.
He studies me for a long, slow moment. Then he lets go of my chin and moves to the fastenings of my dress.
His fingers are deft, unhurried. He unlaces the bodice, pulls at the hooks and tiny pearl buttons, his knuckles grazing my collarbone. I flinch when the fabric slips off my shoulders, leaving me exposed to the candlelight.
He watches every reaction, eyes moving over me as if he’s reading a confession written on my skin. His touch never lingers, never soothes. It’s deliberate, clinical, possessive.
I force myself to stay still, to keep my breath steady, but my hands tremble. He brushes them aside, sliding the sleeves down my arms, the dress pooling around my waist.
He says something in Russian that’s soft, almost inaudible. I don’t know if it’s a threat or a prayer. The words curl in the air, dense and unfamiliar. I want to ask what he means, but the question dies in my throat.
He leans in, his breath warm on my cheek, his hands mapping the lines of my shoulders, my waist, my ribs.
He pauses. His gaze sharpens, brow furrowing as he studies the way I’m shivering, the ragged stutter of my breath. He touches my cheek, and I flinch, heat rising to my face.
“You’ve never?” The question is barely more than a whisper, spoken close enough that I feel it rather than hear it.
I force myself to nod, once, a tiny movement. I can’t meet his eyes.
A long silence stretches out. His hand drops from my face. I risk a glance up, bracing for mockery, for scorn. Instead, his face is unreadable: tension in his jaw, eyes narrowed, something almost like disbelief or regret flickering through him. He draws a slow, unsteady breath.
For a moment, I see the predator become something else. A man worshipping a miracle or cursing a fate.
He leans closer, so close his lips graze my ear. His voice is raw, guttural, vibrating with something that makes my skin burn.
“No one will ever touch you,” he murmurs, each word deliberate, heavy as a promise. “Not now. Not ever.” It’s a vow, a threat, a line drawn in blood.
I don’t move. I can’t. The room tilts, the air thick with candle smoke and the taste of my own fear. He touches me again, slower this time.
His palm settles on my bare shoulder, thumb brushing the hollow at my throat. He’s careful, every motion measured, like he’s tracing a boundary only he gets to cross. I feel owned, remade—his touch is both branding and benediction, searing into my flesh and mind.
I wait for brutality, for the sudden snap of violence, but it doesn’t come. Instead, his hands move lower, tracing my ribs, my waist, his fingers pressing in just enough to remind me of his power. He tilts my chin up again, makes me hold his gaze.
“You’re mine,” he says, voice deep, hypnotic. “Every part of you. You understand?”
I swallow hard, anger and shame tangling inside me. I want to spit at him, to claw his face, to remind him I’m not a thing to be possessed.
The heat in my belly betrays me. My body responds to his touch, to the dangerous edge in his voice, to the way he looks at me like I’m both conquest and prize.
My breathing goes shallow, my heart thundering.
I despise myself for it. I cling to my fury, to the hate I feel for him, even as my skin tingles where he touches me.
He slides the dress from my hips, leaving me bare but for a slip of lace.
He pushes me gently back onto the bed, covering my body with his own—not crushing, but inescapable, a living weight.
He kisses me. It’s not soft or sweet, but slow and claiming, his mouth relentless against mine.
I bite his lip, a desperate act of defiance, and he laughs, low in his throat.
“You want to fight me?” he asks, voice dark with amusement. “Fight. I want to feel it. I want you wild.”