Chapter Five

NOORIA

I stare at the marriage license in my trembling hand like it’s written in a language I no longer understand.

*Nooria Delucca.*

The ink is still fresh. My signature sits there, shaky and small beside his bold, arrogant one.

Married!

Legally bound, to someone I'd rather stay the hell away from if given a choice. In less than an hour at City Hall, with two of his men as witnesses and a bored clerk who didn’t even blink at the armed guards in the hallway.

No white dress, no family, no prayers, no jewelry and celebration like I've always dreamt of. Just a stamp and a ring he slid onto my finger like he was branding cattle.

I can’t believe I’m married, much less to cruelty wrapped in the body of a Greek god.

Valentino sits beside me in the back of the SUV, one arm draped lazily along the seat behind me, the other scrolling through his phone like he didn’t just drag me from my bleeding father’s house and force a ring onto my finger. His profile is sharp in the passing streetlights—high cheekbones, that scar through his eyebrow, full lips that have been both brutal and tender on my skin. He looks like sin carved from marble. And I’m his wife now.

The city blurs past the tinted windows. I clutch the license tighter, my knuckles white.

“We’re going to your mansion?” I ask, voice small, when I realize this is not the way to Papa's house.

“Our mansion,” he corrects without looking up. “You live where I live now.”

I swallow. “What about my things? My clothes, my books, my prayer mat, everything I own is still at my parents’ house. I can’t just…”

He finally glances at me, those grey eyes bored and uninterested, like he'd rather be anywhere than here. “You’ll have new things. Better things. Stop whining.”

I open my mouth, but the car is already turning through massive iron gates. The mansion rises out of the darkness like a fortress, with modern glass and steel, all sharp angles and hidden lights, surrounded by high walls and armed men who nod as we pass. It’s nothing like my family’s warm, modest home with its tiled floors and familiar scents of cardamom and incense. This place screams money and isolation.

The driver stops under a covered portico. Valentino steps out first, then offers me his hand. I ignore it and climb out on my own, legs still shaky from everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours. He doesn’t comment. Just places a hand at the small of my back—possessive, guiding—and leads me inside.

The foyer is all black marble and crystal chandeliers. My bare feet are cold against the floor. I’m still wearing the soft leggings and oversized hoodie from the hotel, my hijab wrinkled and slipping. I look like a refugee in a palace.

“I need my belongings,” I say again, louder this time, as he starts up the wide staircase. “My Qur’an is there. My clothes, my clothes…everything. You can’t just expect me to live here with nothing.”

He doesn’t even slow down. “You’ll have a wardrobe waiting upstairs. Everything you need.”

“But they’re *my* things…”

He pushes open double doors at the end of the hallway and ushers me into what has to be the master suite. It’s enormous, with a king bed draped in black silk, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lit gardens, a sitting area with leather couches, and a bathroom I can see through an open archway that looks like it belongs in a five-star resort.

Valentino closes the doors behind us.

“Rules,” he says, turning to face me. His voice is low, businesslike. “You’ll follow them or you’ll learn the hard way. Firstly, no other man. I don't share what's mine. Second, no leaving the property without guards, or my permission. Ever! Third, no contact with your family without my permission. Fourth, you sleep in my bed every night. No exceptions whatsoever. Fifth, you’re available to me whenever, wherever or however I want you. Sixth, you dress how I approve. No more hiding behind those hijabs and baggy clothes like you’re ashamed of what I own.”

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. Each rule lands like a slap.

“No cheating?” I repeat, voice shaking with anger. “I didn’t even want this marriage. You forced it. And you think I’d cheat? I’m not the one who kidnapped me and threatened me with a marriage in exchange for my father's life.”

“Rule one,” he cuts in, stepping closer.

“I’m not done. No leaving without guards? I’m not your prisoner, Valentino, I deserve to go wherever the fuck I want, without you having your lap dogs on my tail.”

“Rule two.”

“My family—my own parents and sister—you can’t cut me off from them. That’s insane, and I won’t stand for it.”

“Rule three.”

I keep going, voice rising. “Sleep in your bed every night? What if I don’t want to?”

“Rule four.”

“And available whenever you want?” My laugh is bitter. “I’m a person, not a toy. You can’t just treat me like some fuck toy for my pleasure”

“Rule five.”

I’m breathing hard now, fists clenched at my sides. “And my clothes? I apologize if they offend you, but I'll definitely not be taking fashion advice from you. ”

“Rule six.”

He’s right in front of me now, towering, crowding me back until my spine hits the cool glass of the window. The city lights sparkle far below. His hand comes up, bracing on the glass beside my head, caging me in.

“You’re done arguing,” he says softly. Dangerously. “You talked back on every single rule. That earns you a lesson.”

My heart slams against my ribs. “Valentino…”

He doesn’t let me finish.

His mouth crashes down on mine, brutal, and claiming, no gentleness left. One hand fists in my hijab and yanks it off, tossing it aside, and wrapping his fists around my hair. The other hand grips my jaw, forcing my lips wider as his tongue invades. I push at his chest, but he’s solid muscle and unmovable.

He breaks the kiss only to spin me around, pressing my front against the cold glass. My breasts flatten, nipples hardening instantly from the chill and the adrenaline.

“Hands on the glass,” he growls against my ear. “Don’t move them.”

I obey before I can think. He yanks my leggings and panties down in one rough motion, kicking my feet apart. Cool air hits my bare skin. I’m already wet—traitorously, and shamefully wet—and he laughs low when his fingers slide between my folds.

“Fucking soaked,” he murmurs. “Arguing with me gets you this wet? Pathetic little wife.”

Two thick fingers plunge inside me without warning. I cry out, forehead pressing to the glass. He curls them viciously, stroking that spot that makes my knees buckle. His thumb finds my clit and circles hard.

“Please…”

“Please what?” He adds a third finger, stretching me. “Please stop? Or please fuck you senseless so you remember who owns this cunt now?”

I moan.

I hate that I moan, but the sound slips out anyway, loud, and needy.

He pulls his fingers free, leaving me clenching around nothing. I hear his belt, his zipper, then the thick, heavy head of his cock is nudging at my entrance.

“Beg,” he orders.

I bite my lip, refusing to indulge him, but he slaps my ass hard. The sting blooms hot and sends odd waves of pleasure to my pussy.

“Beg, Nooria.”

“Please…” My voice cracks. “Please fuck me.”

That's all he needs.

He slams in to the hilt in one brutal thrust. I scream, the stretch burning, filling me completely. He doesn’t pause to let me adjust, rather he sets a punishing rhythm, deep, savage strokes that slap skin against skin and make my breasts bounce against the glass. One hand fists my hair, yanking my head back so my back arches painfully. The other wraps around my throat, squeezing just enough to make stars dance.

“Take it,” he snarls against my ear. “Take every inch like the good little wife you are. This pussy belongs to me now. Say it.”

“It… it belongs to you,” I gasp.

“Louder.”

“It belongs to you!”

He fucks me harder, hips snapping, balls slapping my clit with every drive. The window fogs from my breath, my legs shake, and pleasure coils tight and vicious in my belly. I’m going to come so fast it’s humiliating.

He feels it. “That’s it. Come on my cock like the needy slut you pretend you’re not.”

I shatter.

My walls clamp down on him, pulsing, milking him as I moan his name loud enough for the whole mansion to hear. Waves crash through me, endless and humiliating and perfect.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it, dragging it out until I’m sobbing with overstimulation. Then he pulls out, spins me around, and lifts me like I weigh nothing. My back hits the glass again. He hooks my legs over his elbows and drives back in, deeper this way, hitting a new angle that makes me see white.

“Look at me,” he demands.

I do. His gray eyes are dark, pupils blown. Sweat beads on his forehead. He looks feral. Beautiful. Terrifying.

“You’re going to come again,” he tells me, voice rough. “And you’re going to thank me for teaching you what happens when you talk back at your husband.”

He pounds into me, relentless, and bruising. His pelvis grinds against my clit with every thrust. I’m over-sensitive, whimpering, but the pleasure builds again anyway. My nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt.

“Come,” he orders.

And I do, harder this time, screaming, body convulsing around him. He follows with a guttural groan, burying himself deep and flooding me with hot spurts. Marking me. Claiming me inside.

He stays seated for a long moment, breathing hard against my neck. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down my thighs.

I slide down the glass on shaky legs, barely able to stand. My body hums, and my mind is a mess of shame and pleasure and disbelief all tangled together.

Valentino tucks himself away, zips up, and looks at me like he’s already won.

“Lesson one complete,” he says quietly. “Now go shower. You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

He turns and walks toward the door, leaving me wrecked, dripping, and strangely, terrifyingly satisfied against the glass.

I don’t know how I’m going to survive being married to this man.

I'm about to head to the bathroom when my phone dings with a text message.

Mom: Where are you sweetheart? It's all over the news that you married Valentino. Is it true?