Chapter Four
Bruised
E vangeline
I wake to pain.
It radiates through every inch of me, a deep ache that makes me afraid to move.
My thighs throb, my hips burn, my wrists ache where his hands had pinned me down.
Between my legs I am swollen, raw, and stretched in a way I never imagined possible.
The simple act of shifting on the mattress makes me whimper, a soft broken sound that shames me as much as the memory of what caused it.
The sheets are damp beneath me, clinging to my skin.
They smell like him, sharp Alpha musk and smoke, threaded with the sweeter scent of my own submission.
Every breath I take fills my lungs with the reminder that I gave myself to him.
Or maybe it wasn’t giving. Maybe it was taking. Maybe it was being destroyed.
Fragments slam into me the moment I open my eyes.
His voice, rough and guttural in my ear.
The relentless weight of his body pinning me down.
The moment he forced himself inside me, stealing my breath, stretching me wide until I thought I’d split apart.
The way he snarled “mine” while I sobbed beneath him.
The pleasure I felt even though I fought not to and the word I swore I’d never say. The word he dragged from me with each brutal thrust.
Yours.
My chest tightens, shame and heat colliding until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I should hate him. I should hate myself more.
But the thought of his hands gripping me, his voice commanding me, the sting of his teeth at my throat .
.. it makes my body clench, a slow pulse of need beating low in my belly.
God. What the fuck is wrong with me?
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes the memories sharper.
The burn of his hand striking my thigh. The way my body arched when he spat filthy words in my ear, degrading me until I cried and still, I grew wetter.
I see myself begging, hear my own voice whispering yes, even when my mind screamed no.
I can still feel the moment my body broke apart for him, around him, convulsing with an orgasm so sharp it left me ruined.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like that. I wasn’t supposed to love it.
I certainly wasn’t supposed to want to do it again.
Tears sting my eyes. I hate that my body has become my enemy, betraying me over and over. I hate that the thought of his cruelty makes me ache to be touched again. Degraded again. Hurt again. The pain was supposed to break me. Instead, it branded me, rewrote me until I craved it.
Fabric rustles somewhere in the room, and I realize I’m not alone. My breath catches. He’s here.
Zion sits in the armchair across the room, a sentinel carved from stone.
His broad shoulders are tense, his tiny scar catching the dim glow of the lamp.
His eyes are fixed on me, cold, piercing, and relentless.
He doesn’t blink and he doesn’t look away when he sees me watching.
He’s watching me like prey, or maybe like something he already owns.
My stomach flips violently. I clutch the sheet to my chest, curling into myself, trying to hide the bruises, the marks, the evidence of what he’s done.
But I can still feel them, on my throat where his teeth pressed, on my hips where his hands bruised me, between my thighs where his cock left me split open.
“Don’t hide from me.” His voice rumbles through the silence, an Alpha command that rolls over my skin and makes my fingers tremble. I want to resist. I want to keep myself covered, but the sheet slips down, baring first my shoulders and then my breasts, betraying me like everything else.
Tears blur my vision. “Why...” My voice cracks. “Why me?”
For the first time, something flickers in his expression. Not pity. Not remorse. Something darker. Hunger, restrained but violent, a promise that this isn’t over. That I’ll never escape.
“You were there,” he says simply, voice like gravel. “And I don’t share.”
The words slice me open. He didn’t choose me because I’m special.
I was convenient. Available. Bought. A price tag stamped to my skin.
I’m not special. I should feel worthless.
But the heat surges again, curling deep in my belly, making my thighs press together.
My body doesn’t care about reasons. My body remembers the way he filled me, the way he forced me to scream his name.
The way he fucked me until I passed out from the pleasure.
I hate myself for it. I hate myself for wanting him.
He rises, slow and deliberate, unfolding from the chair like a predator uncoiling. The room seems to shrink as he crosses to the bed. His shirt hangs open, scars etched across his chest, power carved into every line of his body. My pulse races, torn between fear and something far more dangerous.
“Please.” My voice trembles as I beg for mercy. “No more.”
He stops at the edge of the bed, towering over me, shadows curling around his massive frame. His hand lifts, knuckles brushing my cheek in a touch so gentle it steals my breath. His eyes, though, are merciless.
“You’ll beg for more before I’m finished with you.” His voice is dark silk, threaded with certainty. A promise, not a threat.
My body betrays me instantly. Heat floods my cheeks and slick dampens my thighs. The shame is unbearable. He sees it, smells it, drinks it in. My degradation isn’t just what he does to me, it’s how I respond. The way I can’t stop craving what should horrify me.
And that’s when the truth claws at me, vicious and raw. I don’t just want him despite the pain. I want him because of it. And I don’t know how to live with that truth.