Chapter 11 – Sebastian
I take Sienna to my villa. Roman is right; Viktor is a threat, and I won’t gamble with our lives just to prove a point. Plus, my villa also has a studio, so it’s not as unbearable as I make it seem in my mind.
The moment the car pulls into the compound, Sienna is out, heels clicking sharply against stone as she heads for the front door like she owns the place.
I’m pissed at her.
And so fucking aroused.
Both at once.
Hell.
Everything she did today twisted me up from the inside. The kiss at the altar. The way she led me onto the dance floor like I was the one following her rules. The wink—gosh, that damned wink. It wasn’t playful. It was deliberate. Like she wanted me off balance.
I stride past her and take the stairs two at a time. She follows without rushing, without hesitation. Guards and staff line the halls, bowing as we pass. If they notice that the newly married couple looks more like opponents than lovers, they’re smart enough to keep it to themselves.
When we reach the upper floor, she finally speaks, her voice calm, detached.
“I want a separate room.”
“Not happening.”
She doesn’t argue.
That—more than anything—sets my teeth on edge. I want resistance. I want fire. I want her to snap back so I can snap right back. But she just keeps walking, and I hate that I’m the only one visibly affected.
I push open the door to my suite.
“Here.”
She walks in without comment and heads straight for the mirror. Reaches up and starts removing the pearls from her hair, one by one, like I’m not even standing there.
Behind us, the guards roll her luggage inside. I don’t turn.
“Leave it. Go,” I say.
They disappear instantly.
The door shuts.
Silence.
She frees the last pearl and lets her hair fall down her back in a slow spill of red. It’s like watching fire come loose. She removes her earrings next, her movements unhurried, graceful—completely at ease.
I’m not.
The contrast between how composed she is and how tightly wound I feel makes something hot and dangerous coil in my chest.
“You enjoyed today,” I say finally.
She meets my eyes in the mirror. Not directly—just enough to acknowledge me. “I did.”
My jaw tightens. “Care to explain why?”
She shrugs, sliding the earrings onto the vanity. “It was my wedding.”
“That kiss,” I say. “The dance. You don’t do anything without intention, Sienna.”
A corner of her mouth lifts. “And you don’t like not knowing the reason.”
I take a step closer. “I don’t like being played with.”
She turns then, slow and deliberate, leaning back against the vanity. The silk of her dress catches the light, her expression cool and unreadable.
She turns slowly, deliberately, and leans back against the vanity. The silk of her gown catches the light, clinging to her like it was made for moments like this. Her face is calm. Too calm. Nothing readable there.
I step fully into her space.
“You accepted this marriage,” I say quietly, my voice rough around the edges, “to destroy me.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. “Interesting theory.”
My jaw tightens. “Drop the act, Sienna.”
She turns to face me fully then. The skirt of her gown settles around her like liquid moonlight, her chin lifting just a fraction. Defiant. Controlled. She doesn’t deny it. She doesn’t confirm it either.
She just stands there—composed, lethal.
I move closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me, crowding her space without touching her. It takes effort not to. She doesn’t step away.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” I ask, my breath tight, restrained. “You think I can’t feel it?”
Her eyes stay locked on mine.
“You came back sharper,” I continue. “Colder. Smiling and kissing me like everything is normal. You didn’t walk into this marriage blindly.”
A faint curve touches her lips. Almost a smile. Almost mocking. “You give yourself too much credit.”
Something snaps inside me.
“Then tell me,” I demand. “Why are you here?”
Silence.
She holds it like a weapon, and it hits harder than any answer could have. Because I already know. I’ve known since the chapel. Since the kiss. Since the way she looked at me like she wasn’t afraid of what stood between us.
It’s revenge.
Cold. Calculated. Served by the woman I once thought I’d forgotten—and never actually did.
Her eyes roam my face, then she shakes her head.
“You walked away,” she says softly. “You made your choice years ago.”
I laugh once, bitter, dark. “You think this is about the past?”
“It was your past,” she says, steady. “Not mine.”
I step closer. Our breaths mingle. “You’re lying.”
“Believe what you want.”
I grab her wrist—not painfully, but firm enough to spin her toward me. My hand is fire on her skin.
“Tell me,” I demand, voice low and rough, “are you here to punish me?”
She stares up at me, expression carved from marble. “If I wanted to punish you,” she whispers, “you’d already know.”
The words strike me. Sharp. A warning. A promise. A dare.
Rage and desire collide inside me like a storm.
I pull her closer. She doesn’t resist. She doesn’t yield. She simply stares at me with that infuriating, unshakable calm.
Something inside me shatters.
I crash my mouth against hers. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t careful. It isn’t meant to be sweet. It is years of buried tension detonating in a single collision of anger, hunger, and jagged longing. She tastes of memory, vengeance, and unadulterated fire.
To my shock, she doesn’t pull away. She kisses me back.
There’s no caution in her movements, only equal force.
She matches my aggression, challenging me, consuming me.
Her hands tangle in my hair, pulling me deeper with a desperation she no longer bothers to hide.
The heavy silk of her wedding gown rustles as I hoist her onto the edge of the dresser.
Her legs part instinctively, locking around my hips to pull me flush against her.
Our breaths become a single, tangled wreck. I drag my lips down the column of her throat, reacquainting myself with every pulse point where she once trembled for me. Her nails dig through the fabric of my shoulders, anchoring her to the chaos.
“Sebastian,” she whispers my name—just once. It is sharp, breathless, and laced with a beautiful, holy rage.
I pull my mouth away from her throat, the sudden absence of her skin leaving me cold.
I sink to my knees before her, my movements frantic and fueled by a hunger that has fasted for far too long.
The white, frothing silk of her gown is an obstacle, a lie I need to dismantle.
I push the heavy layers of fabric up, bunching them around her waist until I find her long, slim legs.
I hook my fingers into the lace of her stockings, dragging them down with a roughness that mirrors the storm in my chest. Then, I trail my mouth upward.
My tongue marks a path of fire against the porcelain curve of her thigh, and she arches into me, her fingers clenching in my hair, calling my name again like a prayer and a curse.
I continue my ascent, kissing my way toward the center of her thighs. She’s wet, aching, waiting for me, the scent of her arousal drowning out the expensive perfume and the sterile air of the room. My lips find her sensitive clit, and I suck, my tongue insistent and possessive.
She screams.
The sound is raw, echoing against the high ceilings, shattering the last remnants of her marble composure. She isn’t the ice queen anymore; she’s a live wire, sparking and desperate under my touch.
I don’t stop. I want to drink the sound of her undoing. I want to erase the memory of the man who left her five years ago. I want her to know that even if she walks down the path of revenge, she carries the mark of my mouth and the ghost of this moment with her.
Her fingers dig into my scalp, her hips bucking against me in a rhythmic, frantic demand. She is coming apart, and I am the one breaking her.
Her fingers clench in my hair, pulling me closer even as she tries to escape the sheer intensity of it. I wrap my hands around the backs of her thighs, pinning her to the edge of the dresser, forcing her to take every bit of the pleasure I’m carving out of her.
“Sebastian—”
Her voice breaks, a high, thin silver thread of sound. She isn’t calling for help; she’s calling me to witness her ruin.
I increase the pressure, my teeth grazing her skin just enough to make her gasp, my breath hot and damp against her.
She begins to tremble—a fine, violent shivering that starts in her core and radiates through her limbs.
Her breath hitches, catching in a throat tight with the effort not to scream again.
I don’t give her the mercy of a pause. I lick her harder, suck faster, my mouth a possessive brand that demands everything she is.
Then, she shatters.
It’s a violent, beautiful collapse. Her body jerks, her back arching off the wood as the climax tears through her.
She cries out my name—not as a whisper this time, but as a jagged, desperate sob.
Her internal muscles pulse against me in a rhythmic, helpless greeting, and I stay right there, drinking in the tremors of her release until her legs go weak and she slumps forward, her forehead resting against my shoulder, her breath coming in ragged, broken hitches.
The room is silent again, save for the sound of our shared wreckage. I remain on my knees for a heartbeat longer, savoring the tremors still racking her body, before I press one last, lingering kiss against her pussy, and another to the damp skin of her thigh.
I rise to my feet, looming over her. The air between us is thick, charged with the scent of sex and fury.
Her chest heaves, her eyes wide and dark with the shock of her own undoing.
She parts her lips, her throat working as she attempts to find the words to reclaim her dignity, but I don’t give her the chance.
I cup her face between my hands, my thumbs sweeping over her cheekbones, and I bridge the gap.
I kiss her again.
This isn’t the explosion from before. It’s slower, deeper, an unbearably intimate invasion that feels more like a confession than a conquest. I taste the sting of her anger and the heat of her surrender.
Her lips tremble against mine, her hands fluttering up to rest against my wrists, not to push me away, but to anchor herself as I claim the very air in her lungs.
We don’t speak. There are no excuses left to make, no lies sturdy enough to hold up under the weight of this wreckage. We don’t negotiate terms or pretend this is anything less than a terminal combustion.
She pulls back just enough to look me in the eye, her marble mask shattered beyond repair.
With slow, deliberate movements, she slips down the dresser and reaches for the fastenings of the wedding gown—the white silk that was meant to mark her as my property.
She lets it slide down her body, a ghost of a dress pooling at her feet in a heap of discarded promises.
Quickly, she takes off her lingerie until she’s standing before me naked and glorious. I suck in a breath.
Then, her hands find the buttons of my suit. She works them with a focused, frantic energy, stripping the armor from my chest until there is nothing left but skin and heartbeat. She unbuckles me, zips down my pants, and helps me step out of them. Until I’m as naked as she is.
She doesn’t look away. She takes my hand, her fingers locking firmly with mine, and leads me toward the bed.