Chapter Nineteen - Isabella #2
His hand slips lower, possessive, and my body arches against him—hating it, needing it, every nerve a live wire.
The world narrows to the heat of his skin, the press of his mouth, the way he takes without asking but never forces pain.
He murmurs things in Russian I can’t understand, words that sound like sin and sanctuary, like damnation made flesh.
I shudder, hating the way I respond, how the sound of his voice coils heat low in my belly.
I’m furious at myself, at him, at the world that led us here.
He moves with that deliberate, brutal patience I’m beginning to recognize as his own.
His fingers trace my thigh, leaving prickling trails behind.
My body’s betraying me—my breath coming short, my back arching, desperate to escape and desperate to feel more all at once.
He smiles, the shadow of a smirk tugging at his mouth, and his hand slips between my legs, testing the slick heat there with a possessive press of his palm.
“You like this,” he growls, voice rough as gravel, teeth flashing as he watches my face twist. “You pretend you don’t, but your body doesn’t know how to lie to me, Bella.”
The sound of my name on his lips makes my skin prickle. I try to pull away, but he pins me, powerful thighs caging me in, his hand cupping me through lace.
I glare at him, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them. “Get off me.”
He laughs, the sound low and pleased, like a man savoring a victory.
“No. You want to fight, fight me.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my panties, dragging them down with slow, humiliating care.
He takes in every inch of me, the way I squirm, the flush crawling up my chest. “You want it rough?” he whispers, voice so close I feel it in my bones. “Say it.”
I dig my nails into his shoulders, raking red lines down his back. “Don’t think you can break me.”
He pins my wrists above my head, forcing me down against the pillows. He’s heavy, inescapable, but it’s not the crushing weight I expected—it’s grounding, a force I can rail against.
“Who says I want to break you?” he murmurs, mouth brushing my jaw, my throat. He bites me there, just enough to sting, just enough to leave a mark. “I want you wild. I want to feel you fight.”
I snap at him, biting his shoulder, and he hisses, a grin cutting across his face. “That’s it,” he says, eyes dark and hungry. “I want you to hate me for this. I want you to remember it was me.”
He pushes my legs apart, and suddenly his cock is pressed against me, hard and hot, and I gasp, not from fear but from the sudden, animal anticipation. He takes his time, drawing it out, rubbing against me until I’m shuddering, my pride dissolving into need.
When he finally thrusts inside, it’s slow, merciless, forcing my body to open for him. My breath stutters—pain and pleasure fusing into something jagged and sweet.
“Fuck,” I gasp, hands clenching in the sheets. My hips buck against his, defiant. “Is that all you’ve got?”
He laughs, sharp and breathless. “Be careful, little bride,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. “I haven’t even started.”
He pulls out almost to the tip, then drives in again, harder, his hands braced on either side of my head, caging me in. He sets a punishing rhythm, hips slamming into mine, the bed creaking with every thrust.
I refuse to go quiet, refuse to be conquered. I meet him stroke for stroke, grinding up to meet him, twisting to break his rhythm. He catches my wrists again, pins them, his body blanketing mine.
“You belong to me now,” he grits, sweat beading at his temples. “Say it.”
“Go to hell,” I spit, but I can’t stop the moan that escapes me as he thrusts deeper, hitting a place that makes my vision blur.
He grins, savage, lips at my ear. “You can pretend to hate me, but I know the truth.”
He’s everywhere, his mouth on my neck, his hands gripping my hips, his cock filling me so completely I can’t remember why I ever wanted to fight. I’m soaked, trembling, nails clawing at his back, leaving welts he’ll wear for days.
He shifts, pushing my knees higher, driving into me at a new angle that rips a cry from my throat. “Let them hear you,” he demands, voice dark velvet. “Let them all know who’s fucking you.”
I arch up, biting his shoulder again, and he thrusts harder, relentless, until the pain melts into pleasure, until I’m begging him with my body even as I curse him with my words.
“I hate you,” I pant, “I hate you, I hate you—”
He clamps his hand over my mouth, laughing into my hair. “Lie to me all you want, Bella,” he whispers, rocking into me so deep I can barely breathe. “Your body’s honest.”
He slides a hand between us, finding that spot that makes me unravel, his thumb circling until my hips are shaking. “Come for me,” he commands, tone that won’t allow disobedience. “Now. Scream for me.”
So I do. I shatter around him, crying out, back arching off the bed, every nerve on fire. He fucks me through it, never letting up, groaning my name against my neck as he finds his own release, spilling inside me with a ferocious growl.
He collapses over me, both of us slick with sweat, the sheets twisted beneath us, my legs tangled around his hips.
For long moments, there’s only our breathing—harsh, ragged, proof of the battle we’ve just fought. He doesn’t let go, even as his weight pins me down, his lips ghosting over my jaw.
I lie there, stunned, body humming with aftershocks, his scent, his skin, the ache between my legs all reminders of what just happened. I don’t want to feel safe beneath him, don’t want the strange satisfaction curling through my belly, but I can’t deny it either.
He props himself on one elbow, studying me. “You liked that,” he says quietly. It’s not a question, but a certainty.
When it’s done, I’m left trembling. I’m spent, sweat-slick, heart galloping under my ribs. Emil lingers over me, his hand smoothing my hair from my damp forehead, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek.
There’s something almost gentle in his touch, but his gaze is impossible to read. He leans in, mouth brushing my ear, and whispers in Russian—soft, dark, intimate. I don’t know if it’s a blessing, a threat, or both.
He slips from the bed, moving with silent purpose. I watch him dress, pulling on his shirt, straightening his cuffs with military precision. He doesn’t look back. The door closes behind him with a quiet finality that lands like a slap.
I lie there, staring up at the ceiling. The room is different now, emptier, air charged with the aftershocks of what’s just happened.
My body aches in ways I don’t recognize; my skin is streaked with his marks, my throat sore from cries I tried and failed to smother. The sheets cling to my legs, damp with sweat and other things. I feel raw, open, changed.
Emotion storms through me—rage, shame, relief, something bright and terrifying that has no name. I think of Emil’s vow, of the strange reverence in his voice when he claimed me, and the confusion cuts deeper than any bruise.
I hate myself for responding, for the way I remember his weight, his heat, the shock of wanting it. I want to cry, but the tears won’t come. Anger and disgust twist in my gut, tangled up with a thrill I can’t deny.
I pull the covers to my chin, trying to disappear, but sleep won’t come. I replay everything: the silk, the bruising kiss, the moment fear turned to fire. I wonder what I am now, what I’m becoming, what future I’ve been locked into.
Dawn bleeds into the sky as I lie awake. I whisper a curse against Emil, and against myself, knowing nothing will ever be simple again.