Chapter 11 – Morning After

Dominik

She lies stiff beside me when dawn edges the room in pale light, every line of her body taut as a bowstring. Her back is to me, shoulders curled in as if she can hide from the memory of last night.

She thinks she won something by enduring me without breaking. That her silence, her stubborn refusal to beg, was a victory.

She’s wrong.

The triumph was all mine.

I left her frustrated. Shaking. Soaked and furious with herself. Every second she lay beside me trembling with need, every sharp inhale she tried to quiet, was mine. She’s a cornered animal baring its teeth, and it only makes me want to sink mine in deeper.

And she’ll never be allowed to find relief without coming to me and requesting it.

When I rise, she tries to roll away and burrow deeper into the sheets. I don’t allow it.

“Up,” I say, and when she doesn’t move quickly enough, I tug the covers off her body. She curses under her breath, clutching at the fabric, but I’m already walking toward the bathroom. “We’re going to shower.”

“You can’t be serious,” she snaps.

I look over my shoulder. “I’m not known for my sense of humor.”

Her fury drags her out of bed, but it doesn’t save her.

The heat fogs the glass as I step under the spray, warm water pouring down my back. She lingers at the threshold, arms crossed over her chest, glaring as though her scorn can burn through tile. I beckon. She doesn’t move. So I reach out, catch her wrist, and haul her in.

The little scrap of silk and lace that covered her pussy still clings to her skin, plastered translucent by the water, until I peel it down and cast it aside.

She’s naked now, every line of her body haloed by steam. She tries to hide nothing, tries to stand like marble, stiff and untouchable.

Marvelous.

I lather soap between my palms, slow and deliberate, until the slick foam drips from my fingers. Then I lay my hands on her.

Her gasp betrays her before anything else does.

I drag my palms over her shoulders, down her arms, circling her wrists before sliding up again. My touch is firm, clinical on the surface, but every glide over her skin is designed to remind her that every time she breathes, I feel it like it’s mine to keep.

I wash her breasts thoroughly, cupping them in both hands, thumbs brushing her nipples until they tighten under my caress.

She goes still, chin lifting defiantly, trying to pretend the heat sparking through her chest doesn’t exist. But her nipples betray her, hardening, pebbled peaks against my slippery fingers.

I murmur against her ear, “Pretend all you like. Your body will never lie.”

Her thighs clench together in spite of her very best effort to ignore me.

I soap my hands again and move lower, tracing her ribs, her stomach, sliding across the taut plane of her belly. She holds her breath as my fingers graze the soft curls between her legs, but I don’t linger yet.

I move down her thighs instead, circling my hands around them, making her stand with her legs apart so I can wash her slowly, thoroughly.

She’s rigid, a mannequin under my touch, but I feel every shiver. The little betrayals she can’t disguise. The way her toes curl on the wet tile, the way her throat works as she swallows hard, the way her eyes flick toward the glass and away, as if she can’t bear to watch herself want this.

When I rise again, my cock brushes her hip, hard and aching. I seize her chin and force her gaze down.

“Look,” I order.

She does, and her composure cracks for a heartbeat. My cock stands thick and veined, the aching head red and throbbing with need, water streaming down its length. Her breath hitches audibly.

“You’re disgusting,” she spits, but her voice shakes.

I chuckle, pressing closer, letting her feel the heat of me against her belly. “This is what you do to me. And I’ll suffer with you. I won’t spill a drop until it’s inside you. I won’t waste my seed on anything but your womb.”

Her cheeks flame. Her fury doesn’t disguise the pulse racing at her throat. And beneath the rage, I see it. The sharp, guilty hunger she’ll never admit out loud. The ache to lift her legs, wrap them around my waist, and sink down onto me.

She despises herself for it. I see that too. She’ll get over it.

I stroke my soapy hand down her spine and over the swell of her ass before I finally step back, letting the water rinse her clean. She’s trembling, lips pressed tight, nipples still hard, thighs pressed together in a silent attempt at control.

She despises me. She wants me. Both truths hum through her body at once, and I revel in it.

By the time I release her and step from the shower, she’s shaking, dripping in more ways than one, her glare molten with hatred. And behind it, the glimmer of craving she’d kill me before confessing aloud.

“There’s a robe behind the door for you,” I say softly, as if the moment meant nothing. “It’s time for breakfast.”

The dining room is flooded with morning light, table laid with linen and crystal. I want civility, to see if she can wear her mask in private as well as she does in public.

She enters barefoot, the silk robe clinging to her curves, her wet hair tumbling loose. She squares her shoulders before she crosses the room, as if marching into battle.

“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the chair beside mine.

She does, her chin high, refusing to meet my gaze. I sip my coffee and let silence hang heavy between us.

“How do you like your eggs?” I ask at last.

Her head snaps toward me, disbelief flashing across her face. She recovers quickly, her tone flat. “Unfertilized.”

I arch a brow. “Not an option in the long run. If you’d like, I can get a copy of our agreement.”

Her lips press into a thin line. “Scrambled,” she mutters.

I nod to the server, who hurries to obey. Her eyes follow him, calculating. I know what she’s thinking. How many exits are there, how many steps to freedom, how many men between her and the street. I know she’ll try and run soon. I can’t wait to punish her disobedience.

“You slept poorly,” I remark.

“What do you expect, Dominik? Blissful dreams?”

“I expect honesty. Pretending doesn’t interest me. We’re not children playing house.”

She leans back in her chair, eyes sparking. “Then here’s honesty. You’re a bastard who takes pleasure in other people’s misery.”

I smile faintly. “I can’t deny that I’m currently taking pleasure in your misery. Which is completely self-inflicted by the way.”

Her fork clatters against porcelain. “At least you admit it.”

“I’m an honest man. One who keeps my word.”

“That’s not honesty. That’s arrogance dressed up as a virtue.”

“Truth and arrogance look the same when I happen to be right and you hate that I am.”

She glares, lips parted to spit another insult, and the heat of it makes me want to laugh. Her tongue is as sharp as her eyes, and I want both cutting me until she learns they cut no one else.

“Everyone bleeds,” she says finally, voice low. “Don’t forget that.”

“I never forget. But you should remember that not everyone survives when I bleed.”

Her jaw sets, and I know she wants to hurl the coffee in my face, stab me with the fork, hurt me with anything she can grab. She doesn’t. She chews her eggs instead, every bite an act of war.

“You’re doing very well,” I murmur.

Her brow furrows. “What?”

“You ate. You spoke. You fought. That tells me everything I need to know.”

She narrows her eyes. “You think I’m your experiment?”

“No,” I lean closer, voice intimate steel. “You’re my wife.”

Her pulse jumps. She covers it with a grimace. “Lucky me.”

We finish in silence. When the plates are cleared, I pour her more coffee myself. Steam curls between us.

“You hate me,” I say softly.

Her gaze snaps to mine. “Congratulations on figuring that out.”

I smile. “But your body doesn’t. Not last night or this morning.”

Her cheeks flush, the faintest bloom of color across her skin, and she looks away. Exactly the reaction I wanted.

“Don’t mistake biology for weakness,” she mutters.

“I don’t.” I tip my cup toward her. “I call it inevitability.”

She bristles, her hands curling into fists in her lap. “You’re insane if you think-”

“Careful,” I cut in, my voice cool steel. “You’re not here to think. You’re here to endure. To adapt. And eventually, to give me what I want.”

Her jaw sets, fury rippling through her like a current, but she says nothing. That silence, thick and poisonous, thrills me.

I rise and move behind her, my hands firm on her shoulders. She goes rigid, but doesn’t shake me off. I lower my mouth to her ear, voice sinking into her skin.

“Soon, your womb will carry my legacy. And when it does, you’ll understand exactly what all of this was for.”

She shivers, fury vibrating through her body. I savor it, because I know sooner or later fury won’t be enough. Desire will burn hotter.

And when she finally begs, when she finally lets me inside her, I won’t just own her body. I’ll own the future she carries.