Chapter 10 The Price of Surrender

He leaned over her, his weight pressing her flat against the vanity. One hand came up to cup her jaw, forcing her face to turn toward the mirror. She saw herself—pale, disheveled, eyes wide with a terror that was rapidly being overtaken by something else entirely.

“Look at what you are,” he commanded, his voice low and steady. “This is the woman who thought she could say no to me.”

His free hand moved down, his fingers tracing the line of her thigh with a clinical precision that made her skin crawl. He found the center of her heat, his touch unapologetic and firm. Olivia’s breath hitched, her body betraying her with a sharp, involuntary arch.

“You’re already reacting,” he noted, his thumb pressing into her sensitive flesh. “Your body is far more honest than your mouth.”

He pulled away just as quickly as he had approached, leaving her shivering in the sudden cold.

He stood back, watching the way her chest heaved beneath the bare skin of her torso. The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by her ragged breathing. He took a slow sip from the crystal tumbler he had placed on the vanity moments before, the ice clinking softly against the glass.

“I am going to take what is mine, Olivia,” he said, setting the glass down with a quiet click. “And you are going to accept it.”

He moved toward her again, but this time there was no teasing, no slow tracing of lines. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and hoisted her up onto the vanity. Her legs were forced apart, her bound wrists pressed against the polished wood behind her.

The first contact was blunt and uncompromising. Olivia’s eyes flew wide, a strangled cry catching in her throat as she felt the sharp, tearing sensation of her body being breached for the first time.

Salvatore didn’t pause. He didn’t offer comfort or soften his touch. He held her hips with a grip that would leave bruises, his knuckles white against her skin. He watched her face in the mirror, studying the way her features contorted, the way her mouth opened in a silent plea he had no intention of answering.

“Breathe,” he commanded, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. “Nothing you do will change this.”

He moved with a steady, relentless pace, each thrust driving her forward against the vanity. The wood groaned under their combined weight, a dull sound that seemed to echo in the vastness of the suite. Olivia’s head fell back, her hair spilling over the edge of the marble like dark silk, her bound wrists twitching against the silk ribbon.

There was no tenderness in his movements, only a heavy, driving force that demanded her total surrender.

He leaned down, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth finding the curve of her neck. He bit—not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a mark, a claim that would last days.

“Mine,” he murmured against her skin, the word lost in the sound of her ragged breath.

His rhythm didn’t falter. If anything, it grew more demanding, more urgent. He shifted his weight, his hand moving from her hip to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of how easily he could take everything from her.

Olivia’s eyes were glazed, fixed on nothing, her body caught in the storm of sensation he was orchestrating. A sob finally broke from her, small and broken, and he answered it by pressing deeper, his movements turning rougher, more primal.

“Don’t cry,” he said, his voice rough for the first time. “Just feel.”

He gripped her hair, pulling her head back to expose the line of her throat. The movement forced her spine to arch, her bound wrists straining against the vanity as she gasped into the empty air.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice cracking with a sudden, sharp edge.

She couldn’t. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears finally spilling over and tracing hot paths down her cheeks. Salvatore let out a low, guttural sound—half frustration, half something darker—and increased the pace. His body was a wall of heat against her back, his movements heavy and unyielding, driving the air from her lungs with every impact.

The vanity creaked under them, a rhythmic protest that filled the silence of the room. He was relentless, stripping away every layer of her composure until there was nothing left but raw sensation and the sound of their combined breathing.

His breath hitched, a ragged sound that tore through the stillness of the suite. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his body tightening, every muscle coiled like a spring before finally breaking. The tension snapped, leaving him leaning heavily against her, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her spine.

For a long minute, neither of them moved. The only sound was the dying embers in the fireplace and the uneven, broken gasps escaping Olivia’s lips.

Salvatore eventually withdrew, his movements slow and deliberate as he stepped back. He didn’t look at her immediately. He reached for his shirt, pulling it back on with practiced ease, as if the last hour had been nothing more than a business transaction.

“Get cleaned up,” he said, his voice returning to its usual calm, measured tone. He picked up the crystal tumbler from the vanity and took a final sip. “I’ll be in the study.”

The sound of his footsteps moving toward the door was the only thing that broke the silence, each step heavy and final. Olivia lay still on the cold marble of the vanity, her body trembling, her breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. The silk ribbon around her wrists was tight, biting into her skin with every involuntary twitch of her hands.

“Salvatore,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

He didn’t stop. His hand was already on the brass handle of the door.

“Salvatore, please,” she said louder, a sob breaking through. The tears were hot and relentless now, spilling down her cheeks and pooling in her ears. “My hands... you didn’t untie me.”

He paused. His back was turned to her, his silhouette sharp against the dim light of the hallway. For a moment, he didn’t move at all. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then he turned.

He walked back toward her, his footsteps quiet on the carpeted floor. He stopped just beside the vanity, looking down at her bound wrists where the silk had pressed a faint, reddened mark into her fair skin.

“I didn’t forget,” he said. His voice was flat, devoid of apology.

He reached out and took her hands in his. His fingers were warm, steady, working the knot with the same efficient precision he used for everything else. The silk loosened, and he slid it free, letting the fabric fall to the floor.

Olivia’s hands dropped heavily to her sides, her fingers curling instinctively against her thighs. She didn’t move, didn’t reach for him, didn’t even look up.

Salvatore studied her for a long moment. His gaze lingered on the tear tracks on her face, then on the bruise blooming on her neck.