Chapter Twenty-Two - Emil
The morning starts in a hush, the whole house holding its breath. I wait for her at the bottom of the stairs, pretending to look over last-minute details for the event, but my mind isn’t on the agenda. I hear her heels first, sharp clicks against marble.
I glance up and the world narrows to a point.
She wears a red dress: deep, wicked, the color of sin and ripe cherries and old blood. It clings to her body, highlighting every curve and angle, catching the morning light and setting her skin on fire. She walks with her head high, lips painted a matching scarlet, hair swept back in soft waves.
It’s not for me, not today; it’s armor. Still, the sight hits me with a force I didn’t expect.
She doesn’t look at me as she reaches the foyer, just glides past with a quiet nod. The guards open the door, their eyes darting between us, and we step out into the waiting car. The drive is silent, tension crackling between us.
She keeps her gaze pinned to the window, hands folded in her lap, body angled away. Every now and then I find myself staring, unable to look anywhere else. The way her throat moves as she swallows. The stretch of her thigh beneath the dress. The stubborn set of her jaw.
I want to touch her, to ruin that icy composure, to remind her who she belongs to. She sits too still, too proud, and my anger lodges in my chest, sour and heavy. I clasp my hands tightly and watch the world outside the car window.
When we arrive at the event—a sprawling house on the edge of the city, full of old money and new threats—she slips into her role without missing a beat. The room is crowded with men who shake my hand too hard and women who watch us with hungry eyes.
My hand never strays far from her waist. I keep her close, a silent warning to anyone who forgets what she means to me. She moves with practiced grace, smiling just enough, laughter tinkling and false.
She is flawless, untouchable, and it drives me insane.
She lets herself be led from one introduction to the next. She laughs at the right moments, listens patiently to tedious stories, poses for photos with a calm I envy. I watch her glide through the crowd, the red dress marking her like a target and a flag.
She’s surrounded, admired, the envy of every woman in the room and the secret fantasy of more than a few men. I see the way they look at her, the way their eyes slide from her face to her mouth, her collarbone, the long line of her legs.
One of the men—a slick little bastard, the son of an associate who’s been angling for favor—sidles up to her while I’m talking to another boss.
I catch the movement from the corner of my eye, and the hairs on my neck rise.
He’s young, eager, stupid. He’s saying something meant to be clever, his hand resting a little too long on her arm as he steers her toward the buffet.
I see her lips curve—just slightly—into a smile I haven’t earned in days.
He says something that makes her laugh, the sound soft and quick, and I feel it like a blade in my gut. That laugh, the one I’ve missed, the one she’s withheld from me since the wedding night.
The little bastard leans in, fingers brushing hers as he hands her a glass of champagne. Her cheeks flush, her eyes sparkling with a lightness I haven’t seen since she was free.
Something inside me snaps.
I cut through the crowd, my gaze fixed on her, ignoring the polite smiles and nods that follow me. I reach them in time to hear him compliment her dress, voice low and intimate. His eyes flick up and down her body, hunger barely disguised.
I step between them, my hand clamping possessively around her waist.
“Is there a problem here?” My voice is cold, flat, but there’s no mistaking the threat underneath.
The young man startles, tries to cover his nerves with a crooked grin. “Just admiring your wife, Emil. She’s… she’s beautiful. You’re a lucky man.”
I squeeze Isabella’s waist, hard enough that she stiffens against me. “Luck has nothing to do with it. Remember your place.”
My eyes never leave his, and I see the moment fear enters them. He drops his gaze, mumbling apologies, backing away as fast as dignity allows.
Isabella’s body is rigid under my arm. I can feel her pulse, quick and frantic, beneath my palm.
I lower my head, murmuring into her ear, “Don’t give them any reason to think you’re available.” My tone is sharper than I intend, colored by jealousy, hunger, something dangerously close to desperation.
She turns to face me then, eyes flashing. “Maybe if you treated me like more than a trophy, they wouldn’t think I need rescuing.”
The words hit me like a slap, but before I can answer, I see another pair of eyes tracking her from across the room. I don’t care. I tow her away, not bothering with excuses or goodbyes. The crowd parts for us, sensing the storm in my wake.
I don’t stop until we’re in a quiet hallway, her back pressed to the cool wall, my hands caging her in. The red dress is vivid between us, a line neither of us is willing to cross, yet. Her breath is shallow, her glare sharp enough to draw blood.
“You’re mine,” I say, voice rough with everything I can’t name. “Don’t forget it.”
Her reply is a wordless snarl, defiant, but she doesn’t look away. I want to kiss her, to bite her, to mark her all over again… but there are too many eyes, too many ears.
I don’t let her go. Not when she snaps at me in the hallway, not when her glare threatens to set me on fire, not when she tries to wriggle free of my grip.
I keep my hand tight around her wrist and steer her down a narrow corridor, past shuttered doors and heavy drapes, the drone of the party fading behind us.
“Emil, stop,” she hisses, twisting her arm in my hold. “Not here—”
I’m past listening. The sound of that boy’s laughter, the sight of his hand brushing hers, burns in my mind.
Jealousy thrums through me: raw, ugly, hot as blood.
I shoulder open a door and pull her into a darkened sitting room, cool and empty but for a velvet couch and tall windows veiled in shadow. The door closes with a decisive click.
She tries to yank free. “What are you doing?” Her voice is low, pitched with warning, with challenge.
I pin her against the wall, red silk crushed beneath my palms, my body boxing her in. The heat between us crackles, more dangerous than any threat outside.
“You want them looking at you?” I snarl, pressing my mouth to her ear. “You want to see how far you can push me?”
Her breath hitches, her hands caught between us. “I didn’t do anything!”
“You laughed for him,” I growl. “You let him touch you.”
She lifts her chin, eyes blazing. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d notice.”
That does it. The last of my restraint shreds, burned away by the look in her eyes, the wild, trembling defiance of her body. I crush my mouth to hers, claiming, punishing, desperate. She fights me at first—her fists against my chest, her nails dragging at my collar—but I don’t back down.
I press harder, swallowing her gasp, dragging my hands down her sides. She twists, angry, alive, but her mouth opens for me, and I taste the answer in the way she kisses me back.
My hands find the slit in her dress, sliding up her thigh, bare skin burning beneath my touch. I shove the silk higher, fingers hooking in the lace at her hip, tugging until she gasps again.
“Right here,” I rasp, voice shuddering with hunger. “I’m not waiting until we’re home.”
She glares at me, cheeks flushed, breath ragged. Her eyes flicker with fear, want, something she won’t name. She doesn’t say a word. Instead, she bites my lip, pulling me closer, her own hips grinding against mine.
That’s all the permission I need.
I yank her panties down, tearing the delicate fabric, baring her to me.
She claws at my belt, frustrated, needy, cursing under her breath.
I don’t help—I want to see her work for it, want her desperate, want her wild.
When my cock finally springs free, I grab her thigh, hoist her up, her back pressed hard to the wall, the red dress spilling around her hips like blood.
I push inside her in one slow, claiming thrust, watching her face twist—pain, pleasure, rage.
She bites down on my shoulder to keep from crying out, hands fisting in my shirt.
I move, deep and rough, the kind of pace that leaves no doubt who she belongs to.
Each thrust is a warning, a promise, a confession I’ll never say out loud.
She clings to me, breath hot against my ear. “Is this what you want?” she spits, voice choked, desperate. “To ruin me where anyone could walk in?”
“Let them,” I grind out, hands braced on her hips, holding her exactly where I want her. “Let them hear you scream for me.” The words are a threat and a plea.
She meets every thrust, her body arching, fighting me and herself with every nerve.
Her nails rake my back, a matching violence to the rhythm I set. Her eyes burn into mine, fury and want tangled so tight there’s no space between.
“You think I’m yours?” she pants, gasping as I slam into her. “You think you own me?”
“I do,” I growl, burying my face in her neck. “You just won’t admit it, stubborn woman.”
She laughs, low, broken, dangerous. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Her words goad me; I fuck her harder, hips snapping, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the empty room.
She bites my neck, daring me, and I answer with my teeth, marking her where only I’ll see.
The red dress bunches around her waist, the silk torn and twisted, her legs locked around me, driving me deeper.
It’s not gentle, not sweet. It’s rough, desperate, a war neither of us is willing to lose.
The pleasure builds, sharp and overwhelming, hunger burning through every inch of me.
She moans high and guttural, the sound ripped from her throat as her body clenches around me, shuddering, fighting and yielding all at once.
Her walls clench around my cock as the orgasm takes over. I feel her shudder beneath me, hands scrabbling at my shoulders.
I curse, losing myself in the heat, in the way she pulls me closer, wanting me even as she denies it. I come with her name on my lips, my hands cradling her face, her body shaking in my arms.
For a long moment, there’s nothing but the rasp of our breathing, the wild beat of my heart. I hold her, forehead pressed to hers, lost in the wreckage we’ve made of each other. She’s trembling—anger, confusion, aftershocks of pleasure—and I know I’ve crossed a line I’ll never return from.
I set her down gently, helping her steady herself. She turns away, fixing her dress with shaking hands, refusing to look at me. I button my shirt, watching her from the shadows, unable to find the words I should say. I never apologize, and I don’t now.
Isabella cleans herself up in silence. Then she walks out, head high, red dress rumpled, eyes shining with something I can’t name. She doesn’t look back.
As the door clicks shut, something in my chest tightens. For a man who’s conquered everything, I have never felt so owned.