Chapter 4 – Spirited Filly

Dominik

The car door opens and she steps out with a suitcase small enough to mock me. Exhaustion draped over her like a cloak.

Dark circles bruise the delicate skin under her eyes. Her lids droop with every blink. A long night has carved her down to something thin and brittle, like she might snap under the weight of her own bones.

It makes my jaw clench.

“Didn’t sleep?” I ask, though the answer is obvious. I want to hear her admit it.

She doesn’t. Her lips press together in a thin, stubborn line. Let her believe she can use silence as rebellion. For now.

“You’ll take better care of yourself.” My voice is clipped and quiet. I don’t raise it. I very rarely do. There’s no need. “I won’t tolerate you abusing your body. It belongs to me.”

Her head lifts as if she might argue, but she thinks better of it. The muscle in her jaw ticks instead. She thinks silence will save her. It won’t.

The house rises behind me, tall windows and stone walls gleaming in the morning sun. It isn’t just a house, it’s a monument to my authority.

I built it on the bones of men who underestimated me, with architects who understood that power requires symmetry. The floors are marble imported from Verona, polished so smooth they reflect light like water. The ceilings are high enough that voices echo, reminding anyone who dares speak that this isn’t a place for lies.

Now she steps into it, sneakers squeaking faintly on stone, her small bag rolling behind her. She glances up once, quick, like she doesn’t want me to notice she’s impressed. I notice everything.

The dining room is ready. The housekeeper and her staff prepared a breakfast fit for kings. Plump strawberries glistening under crystal covers, salmon sliced paper-thin, breads and pastries stacked high, cheeses sweating gently in the late morning warmth. Decanters of juice gleam like rubies and gold.

A performance of wealth. A reminder of what she just married herself into.

I sit at the head of the table and she lowers herself into the chair at my right. Her fork stabs a piece of melon, but her eyes half close, lids fluttering.

She’s about to collapse face-first into her fruit.

I slam my palm against the table once, just enough to jolt. The cutlery jumps, the crystal hums. Her eyes snap open, and she gasps, jerking upright, fork clattering onto the porcelain.

“Luciana,” I say, calm as if I didn’t just rattle the walls. “Show her to her room.”

Eve opens her mouth, but I raise one hand and she swallows the words whole.

“You’ll nap for three hours. At half past twelve, you’ll bathe, change, and meet me here for lunch. Do not test me on this.”

She glares like she wants to drive that fork through my hand, but exhaustion wins. She follows the housekeeper upstairs, dignity clutched around her like a threadbare coat.

At twelve-thirty, the soft pad of footsteps announces her return. She looks marginally better. She needs more sleep, but at least she doesn’t look like she belongs in a morgue.

Lunch is composed of salads, chicken roasted with herbs from my garden and wine that costs more than some cars. She eats with caution, like she expects poison in the vinaigrette. I let her. Suspicion is healthy.

We talk with a marginal degree of civility. I ask about her studies, her hobbies, the cause of her mother’s death.

Then I cut to the chase.

“You have excellent genes,” I say, spearing a slice of chicken. “You’re both smart and beautiful, and in combination with my determination and drive, our children are bound to someday reach great success.”

Her fork freezes halfway to her mouth. Then she laughs venomously. “That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? A breeding mare with a degree.”

I lean back and sip my wine. “Would you prefer I tell you pretty lies? That it was love at first sight and I can’t live without you? You should be flattered. Hundreds of women have actively vied to get me to marry them, but I chose you.”

Her eyes blaze, hazel shot with shards of bright green. Sparks fly and the sight is magnificent.

“I don’t suppose you’re a virgin?” I don’t expect the answer to be yes. She’s twenty-four, hot-blooded and gorgeous. I don’t care about her hymen, only that other men may have touched what’s mine.

Her hand twitches toward her water glass like she might hurl it into my face. I kind of hope she does.

I promised her there would be no abuse. I’ve never assaulted a woman in my life and never will. But a good spanking can go a long way toward improving manners, and the thought of my hand turning her creamy, soft ass cheeks red is alluring.

“No,” she snaps. “I haven’t been a virgin since the age of seventeen. This isn’t the dark ages.”

Something feral grips me. An overwhelming urge to kill. Not her. Whoever dared to mark my property. Fury roars through my veins, a storm I didn’t invite.

“Who?” I demand. “Give me their names.”

She glares at me like I’m crazy. “I’m not telling you. You’ll use it as an excuse to go on a killing spree because someone dared to fuck me before you dragged me into this nightmare.”

“It isn’t a nightmare yet,” I say softly. “But it could be. Just say the word.”

Her lips tremble with rage. “Try me.”

The air between us sparks, hot and combustible. I stab another bite of chicken just to keep from reaching across the table and shaking the names out of her throat. The thought of any other hands on her makes me see red. I try to focus on the knowledge that I’ll be the last.

It doesn’t work as well as I want it to.

We bicker through the rest of lunch. She’s clever, sharper than most men I’ve killed, her tongue a blade she wields with precision. Every insult should irritate me. Instead, I want to press her against the wall and test how sharp she is with my hand around her throat.

Finally, she pushes her plate away. “May I be excused, or do you plan on bending me over the table before I go? Seeing as you claim to have such a voracious appetite.”

The image slams into me, vivid and immediate. Her palms braced on linen, china scattering, my cock driving into her until she screams my name. I harden so fast it hurts.

Temptation gnaws, but discipline is my god.

“Not before the wedding,” I tell her.

Shock paints her face. “What? You, of all people, believe in waiting?”

“Not waiting,” I correct. “Discipline. When I take you, it will be as my wife. That’s not negotiable.”

She mutters something under her breath, half relief, half disbelief.

I watch her rise, hips swaying unconsciously, infuriating me further. She climbs the stairs without a backward glance.

My erection throbs against the edge of the table and I ignore it.

There’s time.

The ceremony will take place soon enough. The ring will lock her in. And when the vows are said, when the papers are signed, I’ll break in my spirited filly the way she was always meant to be broken.