Chapter 10 – Wedding Night

Eve

The noise of the reception still rings in my ears, but it dies a quick death when we pull into the driveway.

No champagne chatter, no orchestra swelling. The mansion greets us with silence so deep it feels staged, as if the walls were ordered to hold their breath.

My pulse trips against my ribs and I straighten my spine, hiding every tell I can, because fear in front of him feels like blood in the water when surrounded by sharks.

At the foot of the marble steps, Dominik doesn’t hesitate. He bends, scoops me into his arms, and lifts me clean off the ground without any effort. My gasp tangles in my throat, and his mouth twists into that faint, cold amusement he wears so often.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Grimaldi,” he murmurs, carrying me across the threshold.

The words settle on my skin like shackles, heavier than the ring already burning on my finger.

Inside, the hush presses tighter. My heels dangle uselessly, my hands clutching at the air because I refuse to wrap them around his neck. I hate myself for holding my breath.

He doesn’t look at me as though something extraordinary waits upstairs. He looks at me like he already owns the ending.

I haven’t been inside his bedroom before, and I don’t particularly want to be going in there right now. I should have had a lot more champagne. It would be better to be unconscious for what comes next.

The bedroom is obscene in its size. Vaulted ceiling, polished stone, a bed so wide it could hold an army. I can picture him thrashing around on it, surrounded by six naked women.

Cashmere throws and silk sheets shimmer like an altar waiting for a sacrifice.

Luciana must have decorated it especially for tonight. Dominik doesn’t strike me as the ivory and turquoise type.

I brace for violence when he sets me on my feet next to the bed. I’m waiting for him to shove me down. To tear silk and skin in one breath and break me because he can. It’s what men like him do. What power does when faced with resistance. I force my shoulders square even as my stomach knots tighter.

He shuts the doors with a soft click. Looking utterly nonchalant. No loosened tie, no mussed hair. He could be stepping into a boardroom, not his bridal suite. That calm makes my skin crawl worse than a raised fist would.

“Undress,” he says.

The word is low and unhurried. As if he’s asking me to pour him wine.

My mouth goes dry. Every instinct screams to tell him no. My father’s pale, sweating face flashes in my mind and I bite back the words, keeping them trapped behind my teeth.

I can’t hide the trembling of my hands as they reach for the first clasp at the back of my gown.

Dominik rises silently, pushing my hand away, deftly undoing the row of tiny buttons down my back. He lingers purposefully, fingertips lightly stroking my skin as he moves lower. Then he steps back, taking a seat once more.

I peel the dress off slowly, silk whispering as it slides down my skin. I keep my chin lifted, as if baring myself is my decision and not his order. The gown pools at my feet, a puddle of moonlight abandoned on wool carpeting.

Dominik leans back in a leather chair by the hearth, legs spread, hands resting on the arms like a king watching a performance.

His predator’s eyes roam over me with brutal precision. The corset and lace chosen for tonight squeeze me tight, pushing my breasts high, garters holding stockings in place, every inch designed for his viewing pleasure.

He doesn’t move. He just watches.

“Slower,” he murmurs.

My fingers shake as I unclasp the corset, one hook at a time, air flooding my ribs with each release. It falls away, and his gaze flicks over the swell of my breasts, the taut peaks of my nipples straining against lace. I want to cover myself, but his voice stops me.

“Don’t hide. There’s no reason for a wife to be shy in front of her husband.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. Fury, humiliation, something murderous underneath. I obey, because if I don’t, the consequences would be dire.

The lace bra follows, then the garters, the stockings sliding down my thighs inch by inch. Every movement feels wanton, like I’m stripping for a lover when really I’m stripping for my captor.

My skin prickles under the intensity of his stare. By the time I’m down to my panties, my body is flushed and trembling.

“Leave them on,” he commands. His voice is rough silk, threading through me like smoke.

I freeze, hands lingering at my hips, breath freezing in my lungs when he rises from the chair, slow and deliberate, a predator closing in. He circles me, and my skin tightens wherever his eyes pass, as if his gaze alone is touch. When his fingers finally skim my shoulder, I flinch.

“You’re expecting me to take you against your will,” he murmurs against my ear. His hand trails down my arm, heavy and possessive. “You think I’ll force myself on you now, hard enough that you’ll hate every second.”

My breath stutters. Because yes, that’s exactly what I think.

“But you’re wrong.” His hand slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I feel the hard press of his cock through his trousers.

“I’ve never needed to take anyone without permission. I’m not a rapist, Eve, I’m a killer. I want more than your fear. I want you to crave my touch in spite of knowing better. I want you to ache for my hands on your tits. My cock buried in your sopping cunt.”

I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. “That will never happen.”

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against my skin. “You don’t have to believe me, Eve. But you’ll beg for me. Soon enough.”

His hand skims down over my stomach, slipping beneath the lace. A sharp gasp tears from my throat, a sound I didn't authorize, a shameless plea my mind would have strangled. My legs spread involuntarily, giving him better access. His fingers slide lower, parting my labia with humiliating ease. I’m wet. So fucking wet.

No.

My fists clench at my sides. “Don’t you dare-”

“You’re soaked for me,” he says, voice triumphant. “Your body already knows who you belong to. Your mind will catch up soon enough. You can keep your heart.”

I shake my head, fury scorching my skin. Of course I'm wet, you arrogant bastard, I think to myself. It's a biological reflex, not a goddamn invitation. My body is a stupid, primitive animal, and he knows exactly how to poke it. “I hate you,” I say, the words tasting like acid.

“Good.” He drags his fingers slowly over my clit, circling, pressing, teasing until my knees tremble. “Hate me while you come for me. Hate me while I teach you what your body really wants. Hate me passionately.”

I choke on a whimper, teeth sinking into my lip to hold it back. His fingers move with devastating precision, never giving me enough, always pulling back just before the edge. Heat coils low in my stomach, unbearable and sharp.

“Please,” I whisper, but not for him. For myself. For release.

He pulls his hand away completely.

I sway on my feet, a desperate sound escaping my throat before I can stop it. He grips my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes are glacial, but beneath the ice, I see hunger.

“You’ll stay by my side,” he says. “Morning, noon and night. You won’t touch yourself. You won’t find release unless I give it to you. When you want it, you’ll come to me. And you’ll beg me to consummate this marriage.”

“I won’t beg.” My voice shakes.

“You will.” His thumb presses against my swollen lower lip, smearing the faint trace of my own blood. “Your body will betray you until you have no choice.”

He pushes me onto the bed, not roughly, but with absolute authority. He doesn’t climb over me. He doesn’t take me.

He undresses casually. Hanging his tuxedo and my dress side by side, before finally sliding off his boxers.

His predator’s gaze doesn’t leave mine as he walks toward the bed, his erect cock bobbing against his stomach. His swollen testicles swaying gently with each step he takes.

“You seem to like what you see. That’s a good start,” he murmurs with barely suppressed self-satisfaction.

I realize I’d been staring, my pussy walls clenching in anticipation, lips fluttering needily. Thank God he can’t see that. My body seems to think she’s in a porno and he’s the prize.

He stretches out beside me, one arm caging me, the other tracing idle patterns over my stomach, lower, lower, until I shudder.

He edges me again, dragging me toward climax before pulling back, again and again, until I’m half-wild with frustration. My thighs clamp shut, only for him to pry them apart effortlessly.

“You’re dripping,” he whispers against my throat. “Dripping, and you still think you can resist.”

Tears prick my eyes. From fury, from shame, from the unbearable ache he leaves me with. This flesh, this skin and bone I've inhabited for twenty-four years, has become a foreign country, and it’s just signed a treaty with the enemy without my consent.

He finally stills his hand, leaving me trembling and unsatisfied. His lips brush my ear, promising softly, “Soon, you’ll beg. And when you do, I’ll give you everything you’re so desperate to deny.”

He leaves me like that. Wet. Frustrated. Furious.

Sleep creeps closer eventually. My body aches with unspent need, my skin damp, my throat raw from holding back sounds I never intend for him to hear.

I fall asleep beside him, shaken, furious, and soaked.