5 Why cry

The man's voice was heavy as his scorching body still pressed against my back like flames. I lifted my head from the pillow, my eyes damp with tears, unable to discern his expression clearly.

 

"Quite intriguing," the man slowly leaned down, his tall figure looming over my bare body, bringing a crushing weight upon me.

 

"What... What do you mean?" My hands were bound by his single hand, his features gradually becoming clear in my vision. Those deep golden eyes bore down on me with an oppressive intensity, sending shivers down my spine.

 

"Mike Borin's daughter is lying in my bed," the man wore a strange, almost mocking expression, his lips stiffening into a straight line, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, as if assessing whether to devour his prey.

 

I blinked in confusion, trembling under his captivating gaze, but regardless, I could sense that it was far from benevolent.

 

Though I didn't know why he knew my name or why he suddenly stopped, I was grateful nonetheless. I silently prayed that he would spare me.

 

"Sir, do you know my father?" I suddenly grasped a glimmer of hope. Since he knew my father, perhaps he would be more lenient towards me out of respect for my father.

 

So I looked at him expectantly, allowing him to scrutinize me as if he'd never met me before.

 

"I know him," he scoffed, "of course, I know him," he leaned over me, speaking leisurely.

 

His towering figure still firmly pinned me down, treating me like a trembling rabbit entwined by a python. I looked into his icy eyes and instantly knew my hope was in vain.

 

"I just didn't expect Mike Borin to die so quickly, too fast for me to bid him farewell." The man's voice was cold, tinged with a heavy undertone of malice, dark shadows creeping in his golden eyes.

 

At the mention of my father's final moments, memories flashed through my mind once again.

 

The dagger struck like lightning in the darkness, piercing my father's heart, blood splattering across my face. The bloody scent still lingered at the tip of my nose, making me want to retch every time I recalled it.

 

"Why cry?" The man raised my chin with his knuckle-defined fingers, his thumb wiping away the tears on my cheeks, and only then did I realize I was crying again.

 

The daily life of hunger and hardship as a slave here had almost numbed me to forget the details of that day, the painful details, but I still remembered everything so easily.

 

"Are you unhappy lying in my bed, slave?" The man's tone was unfriendly as he firmly grasped my chin, leaving distinct red marks on my skin with his rough calloused hands.

 

"N-No, please spare me, I beg you," I trembled, tears once again streaming down my cheeks, wetting the pillow beneath me.

 

"Spare you?" The man's expression was indifferent as he released my chin. My head drooped weakly again onto the pillow, but I could feel his hand not leaving my body, instead trailing down my back, coming to rest slowly at the base of my spine.

 

"Why? Tell me, why, Emilia Borin." The words, devoid of any emotion, rang out behind me, leaving me despairing. I closed my eyes in utter hopelessness, unable to think of any reason that could make him relent.

 

I was no longer the noble princess of the pack; I was just a powerless slave.

 

"Can't think of one? Then I'll start enjoying my night, slave," the man spoke with no surprise in his voice.

 

His legs pinned mine like clamps, tearing through my clothes until my inner garments lay in tatters across my trembling body, like rags on the verge of falling apart at any moment.

 

Fingers traced the final covered area, his hot big hard between his legs palpable. "I wish your father could see this," the man behind me murmured softly in my ear.

 

"Emilia Borin, your father loved you, didn't he? Imagine how he would feel if he were here," his words, akin to a demon's whisper, venomously injected images of blood, chaos, and corpses into my memories, causing me to scream uncontrollably.

 

"No! No, no, no!" I began to struggle frantically. If my father were alive, he would never tolerate his cherished daughter being pinned down by a stranger like livestock, treated with such cruel indifference.

 

"Please, don't do this to me!" I cried in anguish, the soft bed now bearing witness to my futile struggles, while the man behind me remained silent, like an unmoving mountain pressing against my back.

 

He observed my pain and sorrow with cold eyes, finding pleasure in it.

 

My vigorous struggle proved futile in the man's hands.

 

His calloused fingers continued to slide over the base of my spine, causing it to redden and heat up from the friction. It was the edge of my underwear. With one more tear, I would be completely exposed to him tonight, like a shell pried open, unable to protect myself.

 

"Please, stop," my sensitive nerves overwhelmed, knowing that if I slept with this man tonight, I would no longer be able to maintain the façade of a maid. Ron would surely exploit this, reducing me to the most wretched of s.ex slaves, only to satisfy the lecherous desires of the men in the pack.

 

The sound of his clothes being undone behind me, the rustle of fabric hitting the ground, filled me with despair. I closed my eyes in resignation, my lips quivering weakly.

 

His scorching body enveloped me from behind, his broad chest completely covering me, followed by a white sheet that wrapped me tightly within his embrace.

 

"Daddy, I'm scared," I whispered softly with closed eyes.

 

The man's fingers, still massaging the base of my spine, suddenly stopped.

 

"You're truly your father's daughter," the man's low, mocking voice sounded in my ears.

 

With my gaze obscured by the white sheet and the air thinning to suffocation, the man pressed against my waist under the covers. I couldn't see what he was doing, but soon sharp pain shot through my tailbone as his sharp teeth sank deep into my skin.

 

"Mmm!"

 

My scream was muffled halfway by the man's large hand covering my mouth. I turned to look, and the man tore off the covering sheet, his silver hair in disarray covering his face, his sharp fangs still not fully retracted. The blood from my wound stained his lips a vibrant red.

 

Though reluctant to admit, this despicable werewolf possessed remarkably striking handsome.

 

"Emilia Borin, if you don't want me to continue, be my slave from now on. How about that?" The man's golden eyes stared at me, suddenly uttering such a statement.

 

"What? No, no," I stuttered, watching as the man's face darkened abruptly. I hurriedly explained, "No, I-I mean, Ron, Ron won't let me go."

 

"That's not something you should worry about, Emilia," the man raised an eyebrow.

 

He rolled off the bed, his bare chest and back bearing many scars from battles under the light. He stood there like a ferocious wolf, exuding danger without making a sound.

 

I quickly lowered my head, afraid to look up, but he slowly approached me, bending down until my lowered gazes unexpectedly met his golden eyes.

 

"Leave tomorrow to me. You'd better remember what you said tonight," his eyes held an unfathomable darkness, "the women of the Borin family, I hope you don't disappoint me."

 

He said cryptically.