Chapter 7 #4
Instead, my jaw tightened, my fists clenched at my sides, and I let the silence carry the defiance he couldn’t touch.
I held his gaze, letting the weight of it press into me, heartbeat matching heartbeat.
Three long, heavy beats.
Too long.
Then—
I turned.
Stepped back into the room, deliberately, leaving the door ajar behind me.
He followed, silent, measured.
I stood at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, bracing myself—not to shrink, but to steel against whatever storm was coming.
He entered with long, deliberate strides, each one carrying a force behind him I had never felt before.
Heat, intent, obsession—he brought it all into the room with him.
Before I could react, his hand was at my waist, pulling me flush against him.
My body pressed against his, helplessly, and he didn’t move.
Not a second.
He just breathed me in, the faint scent of my hair curling around him, possession written in every line of his posture.
Then he spoke, voice clipped:
“No one else will see you like this. Not Ciro. Not any man. You exist for me—and me alone. You are my wife, and certain parts of you... exist only for my eyes.”
I lifted a brow, voice sharp:
“Certain parts? We haven’t even shared a bed since the wedding seven days ago. You’ve barely looked at me, let alone claimed anything. So which parts are yours?”
He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. “I am not ready to sleep beside the daughter of the man who ruined my life.”
Rage sparked in me.
I tried to shove him off, but he held firm, lifting my chin, his eyes locking onto mine.
And then his lips claimed mine—hard, demanding, savage.
I struggled, but he bit, kissed me like a man starved, his need raw and uncontainable.
When I finally pulled back, breath ragged, I spat the words out:
“Don’t you dare kiss me with the same mouth you used on your mistress.”
“I did not kiss her,” he said, panting, heat pressing me against him.
His grip tightened, hands mapping my sides, pulling me closer.
It did nothing to soften my hatred for him.
“You’re mine, Elena.”
Flat.
Absolute.
“On paper. In law. In this house. That means no one else touches you—or worse, sees you like this.”
My breath hitched, small and involuntary.
“I am not yours,” I spat, voice trembling with anger. “Not now. Not ever. My heart... it will never be yours. You hate me, and you humiliated me in front of her—just to make her happy.”
“And I hope you enjoyed your grand dinner with her,” I added, voice laced with sarcasm, even as a dull ache pressed against my chest, the memory of them together replaying relentlessly in my mind.
His expression didn’t flicker.
Not even a twitch.
He released his iron grip on my waist and stepped back—but instead of leaving, he paused.
Slowly, he shrugged off his charcoal suit jacket, folding it neatly over the armchair as if marking his territory.
His hands moved to his cuffs, one button after another.
Every motion was intentional.
My eyes couldn’t leave him.
He rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with strength, veins faint beneath the skin.
Power, contained.
LAnd then—he unbuttoned his shirt.
One. Two. Three buttons undone.
Each revealed more—muscle, tanned skin, a lean body built for control, for violence, for dominance.
I hated that my eyes followed.
Hated that my body betrayed me, heat blooming low and sharp despite the anger, despite the humiliation.
I pressed my thighs together, forcing myself back into into control.
He removed the shirt completely, hanging it carefully beside the jacket.
Now fully facing me, wearing only black tailored trousers, the leather belt catching the dim light, the hard line beneath it undeniable.
My breath hitched before I could stop it.
“Come here,” he said.
Low.
Commanding.
I stepped back.
“No.”
The word cracked, almost a plea.
He advanced anyway.
One step.
Then another.
Deliberate, certain, closing every inch of space.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
“Have you known a man before?”
His voice dropped, assessing, binding the air around us.
I backed up until the wall pressed against my spine.
Cold. Hard.
No escape. No space.
I opened my mouth—but no words came.
His chest was level with my eyes now—close enough that every breath I took brushed against him.
Rising and falling with a control that felt almost unnatural.
Heat poured off him in waves, thick and suffocating, wrapping around me until I could barely think straight.
I could smell him.
Clean skin.
Expensive. Male.
Everything my body shouldn’t have been reacting to—but was.
My nipples tightened sharply against the thin lace of my bra.
My breath hitched.
And lower—a traitorous ache pulsed.
“Speak.”
The word landed like a command meant to be obeyed.
My throat tightened.
I shook my head once.
“I’ve never dated anyone,” I said, voice barely steady, “never... had sex with anyone.”
The words felt too intimate.
Too exposed.
Something flickered across his face.
Surprise? Disbelief? Possession?
I couldn’t tell.
His expression smoothed back into that unreadable mask he wore so well.
His hand lifted.
Slow. Intentional.
Two fingers caught my chin.
Not rough. But not soft either.
He tilted my face upward, forcing my eyes to meet his.
“So,” he murmured, low and deliberate, crawling under my skin, “my wife is a virgin.”
The word landed heavy.
Claiming. Mocking.
His thumb brushed the edge of my lower lip—the same one that still burned from his aggressive kiss earlier.
My breath caught.
I swallowed hard, hating how my body trembled despite myself, hating that he could see everything I was trying desperately to hide.
My gaze flicked to his mouth—those lips I both feared and wanted.
I forced my eyes away, but they betrayed me, jerking back up, then down again against my will.
They landed on the hard bulge straining against his trousers, undeniable and unrelenting, and heat surged through me despite every instinct screaming to look away.
“You’ll go down on your knees,” he said quietly, “and suck me.”
The words hit like a slap.
My breath stuttered.
He didn’t look away. “Like the innocent little virgin you are.”
Heat bloomed in my cheeks before I could stop it.
His voice dropped lower.
“That... is punishment enough for letting another man see you like this.”
I tried to jerk back.
His grip tightened instantly.
“I haven’t crossed any of your three red lines,” I said, voice shaking but defiant, “so why should I be punished?”
My chest rose sharply.
My body still burning from the kiss.
Still remembering. Still reacting.
But my pride—my anger—was louder and stronger.
I met his eyes, refusing to look away despite the heat crawling up my neck.
“Plus... it will be my first time,” I said, voice tight, trembling despite myself.
“I don’t want it... with you.”
My body betrayed me—cheeks burning, pulse hammering, every instinct screaming against him—but still, I held his gaze.
Vincenzo Orisini stood close enough that I could feel every word vibrate in the space between us.
“Your first time.” He repeated it like he was tasting the words, savoring them.
“Do you think that frightens me away, cara?” His voice dropped an octave.
“Everything you are,” he murmured, “will be mine to know first.”
His gaze pinned me, unrelenting. “And don’t mistake this for a request. This is an order.”
“Get on your knees. Unzip my belt. Pull down my trousers. Take my cock out. And suck.”
The command hit like something physical.
My breath snagged.
I forced myself to speak through it.
“Your dick’s twitching and desperate for a warm mouth, huh? Go ahead, call your mistress then.”
“Me? I’m your wife... not some cheap slut you can use whenever you’re horny.”
The moment the words left my mouth, his eyes darkened, and the air between us constricted.
I could feel it pressing in, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
“Let me be clear,” he said, voice low. “I may hate you, but I will honor the vows of this marriage. That means I have no reason to cheat on you.”
“Having dinner with your mistress is not cheating?” I barked, the words sharp, fueled by the anger and pain that still simmered beneath the surface.
“Cheating,” he said, each word landing like a stone, “is being sexually intimate with anyone who is not my wife. Violet will always remain my top priority, but nothing, nothing intimate will ever happen between us.”
I swallowed hard, my voice dropping to a hesitant whisper.
“It’s convenient for you to define cheating that way when it suits you. Am I also allowed to go to dinner with another man?”
He moved then, slow, controlled, but with a force I could feel through every nerve.
His hand shot up, wrapping around my throat.
It did not crush, but it was enough to steal my breath.
My back slammed against the wall, hard.
The air thinned.
My vision narrowed at the edges, darkness creeping in like a warning I could not ignore.
I grabbed instinctively at his wrist, fingers digging in, nails pressing against the taut skin, but he did not flinch.
“You would do no such thing,” he murmured, the words like a shockwave through my chest.
“You wouldn’t even try. You know why? Because you cannot. Because I will not allow it.”
My chest tightened at the weight behind his words.
This was not tenderness.
This was not affection.
This was ownership, raw and unflinching.
“In reality,” he continued, his voice low and dangerously calm, “you’re not just my wife.”
His grip tightened on my throat, sending a rush of heat through my skin.
“You’re my slut, too.”
He leaned in closer, lips brushing my ear as he spoke each word with slow, crushing weight.
“And that... is exactly what you’ll always be to me.”
Another squeeze, subtle but absolute. “Otherwise, what purpose could you serve as my wife?”
Another tightening.
“Now go down,” he commanded, voice low and measured, each syllable laced with absolute authority.
His fingers tightened around my throat with merciless precision, squeezing until black spots burst across my vision.
My lungs burned, desperate for air that wouldn’t come.
I clawed weakly at his wrist as my body convulsed, legs kicking uselessly against the floor.
The world narrowed to the crushing pressure, the roaring in my ears, and the terrifying certainty that this time he might not stop.
That he wanted me dead.