Captive Bride Book Novels & Stories

Defiant, beautiful, and now a target painted in bright red by both the Rossis and quite possibly her own father. Inside the villa, Elena tried to lose herself in the art studio Enzo had prepared for her. The scent of oil paint and turpentine filled the sunlit room, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Every distant engine sound made her flinch. She was no longer just a kidnapped bride. She was a symbol. A trophy. A traitor in the eyes of two powerful families. The first explosion came without warning. The ground trembled violently. Glass rattled in the windows. Elena dropped her brush, crimson paint splattering across the floor like fresh blood. Alarms blared throughout the villa.

"Your mark? You speak of this?" She curled her fingers, and the air resonated, bits of light spinning like broken stars around her hands. "The cuff-links that kept me captive? Gone. I am no longer your puppet." Vladimir's eyes sparkled. "You think tossing them away sets you free? You've only just begun to learn what true captivity is.". "Captivity? I lost everything—my family, my home, my future. And you? You took it all to build your throne on bones."

This is book two, titled : His tainted wife. This is Ruth’s story Book tropes: New found family, forced marriage, love after marriage Ruth’s P.O.V. “We are gathered here to witness the union between….” My mind went to the moment my mother budged into my room with guards, instructing them to carry me to the bathroom where they stripped me down and threw me in the tub. She woke up today and decided to wedge nothing but violence on me instead of telling me they were marrying me away to a person I did not know, to a family I never heard of before.

Knotting the Captive Bride Kianna~ The servants had prepared me with painstaking care, as though I were a sacrificial offering rather than a captive. They had bathed me in steaming water scented with rare oils from faraway lands, their hands gentle yet perfect as they scrubbed away the dirt and humiliation of the journey. My silver-blonde hair had been brushed until it glowed like shiny moonlight, falling in soft waves down my back. They had dressed me in a gown of deepest crimson silk that stuck to every curve of my body, the neckline descended enough to reveal the swell of my breasts, the fabric so sheer in places that it left little to the imagination. Gold thread embroidered ancient rune

#HAREM_OF_LUST 🔞 #Chapter__10 🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯 🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯 🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯 🌯🌯🌯🌯🌯 🌯🌯🌯 🌯🌯 🌯 #SADIQ 🐎 🐎 🐎........ By dawn.. The army rode out to the small village out Nishkapur... I was of course ahead of them leading the charge... I wasn't happy about this... I wished there was a way we could settle this... Because War doesn't solve anything.. Those people won't have a chance against us.. And the worst part is they won't be left alone... Some of them will be killed, some would be captured and sold into slavery.. Some especially the women might be raped or taken away to become concubines...

The caption beneath it made things worse. “Clara Harper publicly embarrassed after trying to seduce married billionaire Elias Ward.” Her face darkened immediately. “Who posted this?” she asked. Jeff’s jaw tightened.“That’s your concern right now?” Clara scoffed angrily. “They recorded me without permission!” Jeff laughed bitterly.“Unbelievable.”His voice rose sharply.“What were you even doing there dressed like that?” he asked Clara crossed her arms instantly. “It was for business.” Jeff stared at her then actually laughed coldly, “You expect me to believe that?”

I open to the first page, and the handwriting makes my heart stop. It's mine. My handwriting. My words. January 15th. I married Damien Cross yesterday on New Year's Eve. Everyone says I'm the luckiest woman in the world. So why do I feel like I just made the worst mistake of my life? I sink to the floor, the journal clutched in my hands, and start reading. The early entries are conflicted, showing a woman who loved a man but feared him in equal measure. Ava, the woman I was, wrote about Damien's charm and his coldness, his generosity and his control. She wrote about feeling trapped even in the early days of their marriage, about wondering if the man she fell in love with ever really existed.

As I sunk, drifting off to darkness, I thought, maybe one day, I would have the power, strong enough to never be held prisoner—again. My lips curling into a smile as I fell asleep thinking of future possibilities. Just then. A knock sounded, ranting on the door twice. Without waiting for a second, the door handle twisted, and the door noiselessly swung open. "Madame," a high-pitched voice reported, snatching me back from the arms of sleep. "The prince had asked we prepare you for the wedding," an olive-toned lady around my age, hands folded before her, in a crisp black gown with white apron lined with frills.

I choked out, my vision starting to blur. “Don’t play me for a fool! You were the one who claimed responsibility for her death first! Now you try to shift the blame onto him just because you want him dead? I don’t care what twisted relationship you had with that rat, but do not dare lie to me. I am not an idiot!” “If you want me to believe Kean killed my bride… then let me remind you of your reality,” he hissed, his grip tightening just enough to make me burn. “You are my captive. You are the one marked as my bride’s killer. Your life, your fate, every breath you take… it all belongs to me. Only I decide what happens to you.”

Delilah's mind was spinning, her thoughts a chaotic blur of fear and anger. The cold metal of Vincent’s gun pressed against her skin, and the horror of the situation sank in fully. She had fought so hard to stop this wedding, yet nothing had prepared her for this kind of obstacle—a twisted takeover of her life. A strange, dangerous man had claimed her as his bride, and now she was staring down a fate she could never have imagined. Marco’s entire body screamed with frustration, his muscles tense as he watched helplessly.