Marked, Broken and Carrying his Heir

“Pin her to the ground. Dom, you keep those damn legs down.” Dante coughed as he stood up to regain himself.

Two men had come when summoned. She vaguely recognized Atlas but the other had been a part of the sea of henchmen faces. Both took a hold of her like she was just a doll. Getting her on the floor again as Atlas pinned her arms and the other her legs. She kicked and squirmed the whole way down.

Once immobilized against the floor. Dante looked over Novalee who still fought and thrashed against being restrained against the floor. He was panting in anger. It seemed like his white eyes were tinged with red now as he moved toward her. It was unnerving but Novale didn’t care. She was trying to get the upper hand again to get out of here.

A sharp pain collided with her cheek. The copper taste of blood filled her mouth. There was going to be a bruise there as water filled her vision. While in her daze from getting a punch to the side of the face, Dante climbed back over her. Gripping her chin with his hand and bringing his face to hers with a slight evil smile over his lips. He looked like he had just won the lottery.

His voice was cold and soft. He chilled Novalee to the bone and caused her to focus on him through the blackness at the edges of her vision.

“Your fight, the way you can catch me off guard just shows me more and more that what I am about to do is just the beginning of our time together.” He slammed into her again as his mouth covered hers in a kiss that had her lips cut on her teeth.

Pulling up her shirt, her bra with it, he took a hold of her breasts. Using them as a grip while he drove her body into the hard floor. Sucking the air from her lungs. One hand reaching up to cut the blood flow on her throat. She drifted in and out of consciousness. Only the sickening sound of flesh slamming against flesh echoing through the bathroom in rhythm to the heavy bass.

Still with his lips against hers, she formed the idea to get ahold of his bottom lip and bite down. His blood now mixed with hers in her mouth. He let out a growl of anger as his fist connected with her gut. The air was punched out of her lungs as she let go of his lip in a gasp for air.

Dante did not give her much time to recover. Pile driving into her again as he body pushed down over her and his hand covered her mouth. Nova was only allowed to panting breaths through her nose. Trying to bite his hand, she found he was pushing too hard against her, his thumb under her chin to keep it closed as he basically smashed her face into the floor. The pain had her screaming in her mouth and his hand.

“Naughty little star. God I love this.” Dante's venomous voice sang into her dazed head as the whole fight he didn't once break the rhythm of violating her.

Time was unknown to Novalee. It could have been a few minutes or hours that he filled his need with her body. When he finally got close, he didn’t even bother to pull out. In fact he drove in deeper. Dom let go over her legs so Dante could grip her love handles. Moving his knees more under her ass and getting her into a position to bury himself into her cervix. The angle hurt and she screamed as he released a growl. His hot seed was spilling inside her. The tears followed down her cheeks as she looked up to the black ceiling.

Her body gave out. She had failed to stop him. He got what she was not willing to give. She didn’t know how she was going to face James. If she did tell him, Dante said he would kill him. The cops weren’t an option if the mafia boss’s words were true. Novalee didn't even know if she would make it out of this nightclub.

---------------- Where it all Started--------------

"Yes, ma'am, we’re on a month-to-month lease agreement. The rates are not fixed, and while you did experience a rate increase, the—"

A sigh, barely contained behind a hand covering the receiver, interrupted Novalee. The female voice on the other end of the line cut her off mid-sentence, dismissing her attempt at a solution. Nova had the answer ready, but every time she tried to speak, she was interrupted, making a simple ten-minute conversation drag on for nearly half an hour.

Listen. Validate. Offer a solution. Apologize. Thank.

Those were Novalee's quiet, mental steps for managing angry tenants.

The fluorescent lights of the storage facility buzzed overhead in a steady, monotonous hum. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air, caught in the pale glow as if they were small, forgotten stars. The scent of damp concrete and cardboard filled the air, tainted by something else — something distant and unsettling. It clung to the shadows, to the corners of the warehouse where things were left to molder and decay. This was her world: a labyrinth of abandoned belongings, a mausoleum for discarded dreams.

When she drifted through the endless aisles, Novalee felt like one of the forgotten things that filled the space around her—a shadow flitting through the maze, caught in the corners of others’ lives. She was small, lost amidst towering shelves, her movements deliberate, practiced. Her uniform—faded khaki pants and a gray t-shirt—merged seamlessly with the dull palette of the facility, making her practically invisible.

Her work days followed a relentless routine: organizing, speaking with tenants, occasionally trying to sell a box of air, and cataloging stock; a Sisyphean task of endless tidying and selling. Her hands, calloused from years of lifting boxes, moved quickly, with a certain precision that betrayed years of habitual ease. Beneath her practiced exterior, though, a quiet unease churned—an anxious companion she could never shake.

The predictable rhythm of her work had become a shield—her second skin, a mask that kept the chaotic noise of her life at bay. The joy she found in their modest apartment, the love she shared with her husband, James, had begun to overwhelm her. The intensity of their bond, along with the suffocating loneliness she felt after work, seemed almost like an impossible burden. Even James—her safe harbor—couldn’t break through the darkness that loomed over her. The routine at work became a fragile anchor, a quiet comfort in the midst of her uncertain, shifting world. She knew every aisle, every price tag, every forgotten unit tucked in the shadows. It gave her some strange sense of control, some tether to a world she could understand. Every forgotten unit held a story, a whisper of a life once lived, and somewhere in that silence, Novalee found an odd sense of companionship.

She wasn’t entirely alone at the facility. Mr. Henderson, the aging handyman, often appeared, his face as worn and weathered as the dusty boxes his tenants left behind. Though his words were few and his gruff manner conveyed little, there was a flicker of kindness in his eyes. He’d sometimes offer her a lukewarm cup of coffee, his silent concern evident despite his stoic demeanor. He knew something of her solitude, though she never spoke of it. Then there was Hera, the young, boisterous part-timer, full of energy and youth, but also full of herself. She often attempted to start conversations, her efforts bright against her withdrawn silence. But Novalee kept her walls up—her private refuge only for James. Hera’s attempts to connect felt intrusive, like an invasion of a quiet life that had already been carefully constructed.

Evenings were the hardest. As the long shadows stretched across the facility, an overwhelming silence descended, amplifying the hollow emptiness. The solitude seemed to press against her, heavy, suffocating. She stayed late more often than not, the solitude of the storage warehouse offering comfort she couldn’t find in her apartment, especially when James worked his night shift. The silence of the facility, the ever-present hum of the lights, and the stack of forgotten boxes mirrored her own existence—quiet, confined, and far from the chaotic lives outside. From the roof of the building, she could see the city lights twinkling, a silent observer of lives far removed from her own.

There were whispers, too. Rumors passed in hushed tones among the tenants, stories of shady dealings in the darker corners of the city. Novalee caught bits of these fragments, the gossip drifting through the walls like the dust in the air. There was something hypnotic about it all—a world of danger, power, and illicit intrigue that felt both terrifying and strangely magnetic. Yet it was a world she only watched from a distance, a world she never thought would touch her life.

Routine had become her refuge. Each day began with the harsh intrusion of the alarm, tearing her from sleep’s brief respite. Her morning was quick, quiet—a breakfast alone with James after his day ended at the shipping company. They shared a fleeting, peaceful moment, but before long, she was dressed and heading to the storage facility again, a place that seemed as stable as the shifting sands of her life allowed. Days blurred together: the heavy lifting, the inventorying, the few tenants who came to complain about doors or rates. Sometimes, a rare sale. But mostly, silence. It was predictable, simple—there was comfort in that. Or at least, there was a numbness in it.

The only deviation in her cycle came at lunch. She sat alone in the breakroom, listening to the same songs on the same tired stereo. It was the soundtrack of her solitude. Yet, no matter how familiar or reassuring, the music couldn’t entirely mask the unease gnawing at the edges of her mind—a quiet threat she couldn't put into words. That tension, that vulnerability, was soon to be laid bare, her sanctuary shattered by an encounter that would carve itself into her memory forever.

But in this moment, she knew none of this. At this moment, she was on the phone with a tenant whose anger had been finally quieted, who was finally taking a breath long enough to listen.

“I have your old rate here,” Novalee said quickly, but with clarity. “It’s somewhere between the standard and the discounted web rate. I processed the rate change, and it will be reflected in next month’s payment.”

The tenant took a moment to absorb it all, then, finally, her words were full of gratitude. “Oh, thank you, you’re amazing! I really appreciate you!"

Novalee ended the call smoothly, offering a polite reminder that the rate increases would continue and urging the tenant to call anytime—there were no promises, but they’d try. The words were firm, clear, and left no room for misunderstanding. As always, it didn’t matter. She reminded herself one more time that they would try—and that was all she could offer.

The phone clicked off. The office was still silent. She sat back in her chair, a loud sigh escaping her lips. It echoed in the cavernous emptiness of the office.

As long as that was the only problem for the day, she could handle anything else that came her way.

Oh, how the world likes to jinx the humans who live in it.

The day’s work felt like an endless drumbeat in the back of Novalee’s mind as she left the storage facility, the low hum of fluorescent lights still echoing in her head. The night was cool and crisp, and her footsteps against the cracked sidewalk seemed to drown out the noise of the city around her. The familiar smell of damp asphalt and the distant scent of takeout from passing cars reminded her she was back in the world beyond the storage unit walls, but the clamor of the world still seemed distant, as though she were passing through it like a ghost.

The apartment wasn’t far—a small, corner building on a quiet street where the sounds of traffic often felt muffled, and the air seemed to carry a breath of peace. She crossed the street, her pace slow but steady, and made her way up the narrow staircase to their door. There was comfort in this routine too: the soft click of her key turning in the lock, the familiar hum of the apartment’s air conditioning kicking on as she opened the door.

Inside, the world shifted from the quiet, impersonal halls of the storage unit to the soft warmth of her home. The comforting scents of the evening’s meal—something simple, a stir fry with vegetables—lingered in the air. James, already at the stove in his worn, dark blue work coveralls, gave her a quick, tired smile.

"Hey, love," he said, his British voice rough from hours of sleep he just had to prep for his night of work at the shipping company. His hair was tousled, a little messy from the sweat of the day, but there was a softness to the way he looked at her that Novalee clung to—like he could see past the mask she wore to the places inside her that felt unseen by everyone else.

She smiled in return, closing the door behind her and dropping her keys on the counter. "Smells good."

He added a few more spices, and their soft chatter filled the room for a moment as he plated the food. Novalee sank into one of the chairs at their small kitchen table, her eyes on him as he moved around the kitchen with the same rhythmic fluidity she recognized from all their quiet dinners together. There was something reassuring about the steady motion of his hands, the way he prepared their meal without thinking, their movements so intertwined it felt like a private language they spoke in the solitude of their apartment.

They ate together, sharing quiet stories of their day, the mundane details of work, even the noise of their busy lives felt different when they were together. It was a calm exchange, each story sinking into the space between them like soft, worn threads being woven together, creating a cushion around the hours before he would leave for his night shift. His words, though simple, grounded her—his voice seemed to erase the tension from her shoulders, the days’ anxiety slipping away just for this little while.

When they were done eating, James took their plates, and Novalee stretched, tired from the repetitive nature of her day.

"I'm gonna be leaving in fifteen," he said as he wiped his hands on a towel. "You sure you're okay on your own tonight?"

She nodded, giving him a faint smile. "Of course. I’ll be fine."

She always said that. Always.

It wasn’t that she minded the silence when it was just her—it was familiar, comfortable, but it also made everything feel more pronounced. With James around, there was an illusion of noise, of life that made the silence less heavy. When he was gone, it was like the whole apartment held its breath, waiting for her to fill the emptiness.

James came over, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She leaned into him, his arms a solid comfort around her waist, a fleeting warmth she would soon have to surrender for another night. He pressed a kiss into her hair, and for a moment, she let herself just feel his presence—the connection she clung to in the quiet.

"I’ll see you in the morning?" he asked quietly, his voice soft against the space between them.

Novalee nodded, her chin tilting slightly upward to catch his gaze. "Yes. Have a good shift."

With a lingering kiss, he stepped back and gathered his things, pulling on his jacket and grabbing his keys, his worn boots tapping softly against the floor. His movements, like everything he did, seemed to slow down the rush of time, allowing her to savor the last moments of their shared space before the reality of her solitude began to settle in.

When the door clicked softly behind him, Novalee was left standing in the stillness. The apartment, once again, swallowed her up in silence. The hum of the refrigerator was her only companion for a while, until the slow clatter of the kettle broke it.

She sat on the couch with a cup of tea, her eyes unfocused as she stared at the quiet walls of the room. Outside, she could hear the soft murmur of traffic as night deepened around them, but within these walls, she was alone. This was where the quiet truly began: where thoughts had room to expand, stretch like shadows. The loneliness of the silence seeped in deeper, filled every hollow space in her chest that she couldn't fill with anything but more silence.

She thought about the space she'd created for herself at the storage facility, the protective, meticulous order she carried in her daily routine, how she often wished she could escape to that world where her own rhythm, her own control, enveloped her. But at night, here, in the quiet of their home, the walls closed in on her, reminding her of what she still didn’t know how to face. Everything is already in its place. Nothing broken, nothing moved, nothing needing fixing. Maybe a little dust on the shelf. The quiet was no longer a refuge; it felt almost unbearable.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, her cup growing cold in her hands, before finally pushing herself to her feet. Her body ached with the weight of the unspoken words, the emotions she didn’t know how to express. The bed called to her, an unremarkable escape from the endless stretch of thoughts circling her head.

As she slipped beneath the covers, the quiet pressed down again, darker this time, swallowing her whole. Her mind raced with what the future would hold, with what might be lurking in the edges of her world—a possibility, a shadow she wasn't sure would pass. But, for now, the silence cradled her, and as she turned onto her side, the darkness wrapped itself around her like an old, familiar coat.

And with that, she closed her eyes.