Chapter 4 Vera
Vera
I've been hiding in the library.
It's pathetic, really. Hiding from a man in his own house. But after what happened yesterday, after I came apart in his arms against the nursery doorframe while still fully dressed, I can't face him. Can't look into those ice-blue eyes and pretend my body didn't betray me like a common slut.
The library is beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with thousands of books. A rolling ladder. Deep leather chairs positioned by tall windows. It would be perfect if it weren't a cage.
I've curled up in one of the chairs with a book I grabbed randomly, not even caring what it was. Anything to escape into someone else's story. Someone else's life. Someone who isn't getting married tomorrow to a man who bought her like property.
The door opens.
My stomach drops. I don't look up. Maybe if I stay very still, he'll leave.
"What are you reading?"
His voice cuts through the silence like a blade. I grip the book tighter, still not looking up.
"Vera." A command now. "Answer me."
"Just a book." My voice comes out smaller than I'd like.
Footsteps cross the hardwood floor. He stops beside my chair, and I can feel him looming over me. Waiting.
Finally, I risk a glance up. He's dressed casually in dark jeans, white shirt rolled to his elbows. The tattoos on his forearms are even more visible like this, dark ink twisting up toward his biceps. The wolf on his throat seems to be watching me.
"Let me see it."
I clutch the book to my chest instinctively. His eyes narrow.
"Vera. Give me the book."
And because some broken part of me can't help but obey when he uses that tone, I hand it over.
He takes it, turning it to read the cover. Then his eyebrows rise. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face.
Oh no.
"Interesting choice," he says, voice dripping with dark amusement. He reads the back cover aloud: "He took her against her will. Made her his. Bred her." His eyes lock onto mine. "Sound familiar?"
Heat floods my face. Of all the books I could have grabbed blindly—of course it's this one. Dark romance. Captive heroine. Obsessive, possessive hero who claims her body and soul.
"It was random," I mumble. "I didn't know what it was."
"Liar." He sits on the arm of my chair, too close, invading my space. "You knew exactly what it was. That's why you're blushing like that. That's why you can't look at me."
"I'm not."
"You are." He flips through the pages, scanning. Then stops. "Here we go. Chapter seven." His voice drops lower, becomes that dark honey that does things to my insides. "Let me read you something."
"Don't!"
But he's already reading, voice low and intimate: "He pinned her down and took what was his.
She fought even as her body betrayed her, arching into his touch, begging for more.
His mouth on her throat, his hands everywhere, owning her.
'Mine,' he growled. 'Say it.' And she did.
Because her body knew the truth even if her mind wouldn't accept it. "
I'm frozen, heat pooling between my thighs at the sound of his voice forming those words. At the parallel to my own situation. At how much I want to hear him keep reading.
"Is this what you fantasize about?" he asks, closing the book but not setting it down. "Being taken? Owned? Used?"
"No."
"Liar." He sets the book aside and reaches for me, pulling me up from the chair. Before I can protest, he sits down and pulls me onto his lap—not straddling this time, but sideways, my legs draped over one of his thighs. More intimate somehow. More vulnerable.
"This is what's going to happen tomorrow night," he says, one arm banding around my waist to keep me in place. "You. In my lap. Except you'll be naked and I'll be buried inside you."
"Let me go."
"No." His free hand settles on my knee, warm and possessive. "You had your escape time. Now you face what's coming. What you want whether you'll admit it or not."
His hand slides slowly up my thigh, over my leggings. Not rushed. Deliberate. Claiming every inch.
"Stop."
"Why? Because it makes you wet?" His hand reaches the apex of my thighs, cupping me through the thin fabric. I gasp at the contact. "You are. I can feel it even through these."
He's right. I am. My body is a traitor, responding to his voice, his words, his touch.
"I've been thinking about this," he murmurs against my ear, fingers pressing more firmly. "About touching you. Learning what makes you gasp. What makes you beg."
"I won't beg."
"You will." His fingers find my clit through the fabric, rubbing slow circles. "You'll beg me to fill you. To breed you. To never stop."
I bite my lip hard, trying not to react. But my hips move involuntarily, seeking more pressure.
"There she is," he says, satisfaction in his voice.
His hand slides under the waistband of my leggings. I should stop him. Should push him away. Should do anything except let him touch me like this.
But I'm frozen as his fingers slide lower, finding me wet and ready beneath my panties.
"Fuck," he groans. "You're soaked. All this from just sitting on my lap?"
He strokes through my folds, learning me, exploring. When his finger circles my entrance, I whimper.
I've never done this. Of course, I've touched myself before, late at night when I couldn't sleep. Ground against my pillow seeking relief. But I've never put anything inside. Never even used my own fingers. The idea always felt too invasive, too much.
And now he's about to.
"You're so tight," he says, voice strained. "Virgin tight. Have you ever even touched yourself here? Put your fingers inside?"
"No," I whisper, shame heating my face.
"Good." The word is a dark purr of satisfaction. "I'm going to have to work my cock into this pussy slowly. Carefully. Make sure you can take all of me."
He pushes one finger inside, just the tip. The sensation is completely foreign. Not painful exactly, but strange. Overwhelming. Too much and not enough.
"Shh," he soothes, his other arm tightening around my waist. "Just one finger. You're taking it so well, malyshka. Such a good girl for me."
He pushes deeper, slowly, letting me adjust to the feeling of being penetrated for the first time. My body tenses around the invasion.
"Breathe," he commands softly. "Relax. Let me in."
I force myself to breathe, and as I do, the burning stretch becomes something else. Something that makes me ache.
"There," he murmurs. "Feel that? That's what it's like to be filled. Tomorrow it'll be my cock, thick and hard, stretching you open even more."
He starts to move his finger in and out, and I can't control the sounds escaping my throat. It's so intimate. So invasive. He's inside me, touching me in ways I've never even touched myself.
"Shh," he soothes, his other arm tightening around my waist. "Just one finger. Tomorrow it'll be my cock, thick and hard, stretching you open."
He pushes deeper, slowly, letting me adjust. The sensation is foreign and overwhelming and not enough all at once.
"How does it feel?" he asks, continuing to move his finger in and out slowly. "Being filled? Being claimed?"
"Strange," I admit breathlessly. "I've never had this."
"I know." His voice is thick with satisfaction. "You've never had anything inside you. Just rubbed that needy little pussy against your pillow late at night when you couldn't sleep. Isn't that right?"
Heat floods my face. I’d hoped he hadn’t known about that, but he knows everything.
"I'm going to give you another," he warns. "It'll burn. But you're going to take it for me. Because tomorrow you'll take my cock, and that's much thicker than two fingers."
He adds the second finger and I gasp at the stretch. My body fights the intrusion, clenching tight around him.
"Relax," he commands, his thumb finding my clit to distract from the discomfort. "Let me in. Let me teach your body how to take me."
I force myself to breathe through it, and gradually the burn fades into something else. Something that makes me squirm in his lap, seeking more.
"Good girl," he praises, beginning to move both fingers together. "So tight around my fingers. Tomorrow you'll be this tight around my cock, and I'll have to work every inch inside you."
"This is just a taste," he says, voice dark with promise. "Tomorrow I'll fill you properly. Breed you. Make this tight little pussy take every inch of my cock until you're screaming."
I'm shaking now, that familiar tension building. His fingers curve inside me, finding a spot that makes me see stars.
"That's it," he encourages. "Come on my fingers. Show me how you'll come on my cock."
The combination of his fingers inside me and his thumb on my clit is too much. The orgasm crashes through me, harder than yesterday, more intense. I cry out, body clenching around his fingers, distantly aware that I'm soaking his hand.
He works me through it, fingers gentling but not stopping until I'm trembling and oversensitive.
When he finally withdraws his hand, I watch in shock as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.
"Delicious," he says, eyes locked on mine. "Tomorrow I'm going to taste you properly. Put my mouth on this pussy and make you come on my tongue before I fuck you."
I'm still catching my breath when the doorbell rings.
He sighs. "That'll be Anya." He lifts me off his lap despite my wobbly legs, steadying me when I sway. "Don’t keep her waiting. You need a wedding dress."
"I don't want one."
"I don't care what you want." He brings his hand to my face, running his thumb across my bottom lip—the same thumb that was on my clit moments ago. "You're getting married tomorrow. You need a dress. Anya will help you find one."
"Are you coming?"
"No." Something flashes in his eyes. "Tradition. I don't see the dress until tomorrow. Until you walk down the aisle to become mine."
***
Anya Volkova is not what I expected.