Romance Novels With Physically Abused Heroines Novels & Stories

The way she believes in the worst people. 74. Her hair. Wet. Dry. Tangled. Tamed. 75. Her silence when she’s deciding to stay. 76. Her eyes when she doesn’t want to leave. 77. Her kindness. 78. Her cruelty. 79. The way she breaks me and doesn’t know it. 80. Her scent on my sheets. 81. The way she kissed my scar. 82. Her fingers when they shook that first time. 83. The way she made me believe I wasn’t born evil.

He smacked her butt lightly She hissed and struggled harder. “Touch me again and I’ll make sure the next headline is your body floating in the river.” He groaned and spun her around effortlessly and kissed her hard and deep without warning. Fury exploded in her chest. Anabella bit his lip, cursed violently against his mouth, but he only kissed deeper, one hand sliding into her hair like he had every right. “Psychopath,” she hissed against his lips. “Coming from you, that means a lot.”

Crouching down to his level Damian smirked viciously as he tapped his gun on his chin as if he was thinking. "You know what I forgot about you trying to force her. Thanks for reminding me. Let me tell you a story I read, a novel actually." Damian smiled making the guy in front of him tremble two times. "In a Chinese novel which I read there used to be a villainess. A villainess who's desperate for the main lead. She tried to humiliate, hurt and kill the female lead. When nothing worked she tried to drug the male lead and tried to sleep with him. But we already know that the female lead would never let it happen. As usual the villainess is punished you know how? Guess it."

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“You struck. You didn’t quit. That’s all that matters today.” Her throat tightened at the rare warmth in his tone. “Thank you,” she whispered. That night, Elara’s body ached worse than ever. Bruises bloomed across her arms and legs, her muscles screamed with every movement. Yet when she opened her notebook, her hand didn’t tremble from fear — it trembled from exhaustion and exhilaration. She wrote slowly, carefully:

“I am not your enemy, so why would you do this to me?” John broke Sophia’s legs and sent her to the asylum because of that scumbag, Yvonne. If Winona did not save Sophia, she would have to live in the asylum for the rest of her life. Sophia thought of the inhumane tortures in the asylum. She also thought of her disfigured face and her broken legs. How could Sophia not hate Yvonne? She then began to slap Yvonne even harder. Benedict felt bad as he watched from the side. “I wrote the anonymous letter. Sophia, come at me if you want to!”

They’d called his name— he was the sole reason they’d done those nasty things to me. I’d felt their rough hands, caressing me against my will. One had ripped off my panties with force and had stuffed my mouth when I tried to scream for help. My body had been manhandled by thugs. It was… horrifying. Rosa’s warm touch jolted me back from the awful playback my mind was having, her fingers went to my face to wipe off the tears streaming down my cheeks. I held her wrist solemnly for comfort, sobbing loudly with the uncomfortable cough that caught up in my throat.

I know that many of you might be enraged because of their horrible pasts but I did warn you all from the beginning that this book is a DARK-ROMANCE for a reason. My characters are flawed because no one is perfect and that they were unfortunate victims of circumstances. This part was really hard for me to write, I'll be honest. Let me know your thoughts on it!

My awesome readers. This book is going to be a dark romance. So please, don't try to cut off my head if our Georgina brutally suffers (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠). I mean, she must suffer in order for her to change. Hehehe~!".

“The crack of his belt sent a jolt through her. Her butt cheeks were flaming, yet she begged for more, dressed in a maid’s outfit.” “When his 9 inches thrust into her, avoiding all the pleasurable points and slamming into her cervix, she wailed and begged him to stop, but he went on until she adjusted.” Detroit’s eyes closed tight, hard, like maybe if he shut them long enough, the words would vanish. But they didn’t. They were scorched behind his eyelids. Every line. Every breathless moan the heroine made. Every shameful plea for more, even when she was hurting. What are authors writing these days? Romanticizing pain?