Chapter 3 Forced Marriage (ii)

I woke up with a start, the remnants of last night's tears drying on my cheeks.

The room was still, sunlight leaking through the thick curtains of the mansion's guest suite.

My body ached from the weight of everything, betrayal, fear and uncertainty. A knock at the door pulled me out of my thoughts.

There was a maid there, her eyes low. "Mr. Martini would like you to join him in the dining room."

My stomach twisted. I hadn't seen Marco Martini yet, only heard the stories, the man who moved through the criminal world like a king in a lion's den. And now I was his bride-to-be.

I followed the maid in silence, my palms clammy. When I stepped into the dining room, the air felt heavy.

He was already seated, legs casually spread, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

His dark hair was a little scattered like he'd just run his fingers through it, or someone else had. He exuded power without effort, every movement confident and unhurried.

His gaze locked on me. "Ah," he murmured, voice low and velvet-smooth. "My bride finally graces me with her presence."

My throat went dry, I sat across from him, tense, uncertain. I didn't even notice what was on my plate.

"We're to be married tomorrow," he said, not asking. Telling.

I swallowed. "Why? What do you even gain from this?

He raised a brow, something between amusement and warning flickering in his eyes. "Rule number one, Emily. Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to."

He dismissed the maids with a flick of his fingers. We were alone now.

"You just broke the first rule," he said, voice lowering as he rose from his seat. "Already testing boundaries, are we?"

I stood instinctively, my heart was racing. "I'm not afraid of you," I lied.

He smirked, walking slowly around the table toward me. "You should be."

He stopped just inches from me, his presence swallowing up the space between us.

I could smell him, something expensive, masculine, and warm.

"But not for the reasons you think," he added, lifting his hand slowly, brushing a knuckle down my jaw.

"You want to hate me," he said, tilting my chin up. "You came in here expecting a monster."

"And you're not?"

He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing mine. "Monsters don't ask before they touch."

I stared at him, trembling slightly. "Are you asking?"

"No." His breath ghosted over my skin. "I'm waiting for you to beg."

My stomach flipped, heat curling low in my belly. I hated the way my body reacted to him. To this, to the electricity sparking in the air between us.

"You don't even know me," I whispered.

His eyes darkened. "That's what makes this interesting."

His fingers slid down my arm, slow, deliberate. As if testing, waiting.

"If you want to run," he murmured, "you have five seconds before I stop being polite."

I didn't move.

His lips brushed my cheek. "That's what I thought."

He grabbed me and pinned me to the table, my hands behind my back. His body pressed against mine.

"What are you doing?" I yelled, tears already gathering in my eyes. "You can't rape me, you promised my father you'd treat me-"

"Shut up," he growled, his hand covering my mouth. He raised up my gown, his fingers brushing against my skin.

I shivered, a mix of fear and something else coursing through my veins. He pulled my panties to the side,

He spanked my ass, hard. I yelped, more from surprise than pain. "You broke rule number one again."

He spanked me again, his hand connecting with my flesh with a loud smack. I could feel my pussy throbbing, my body betraying me.

He moved his hand down, his fingers brushing against my clit. I shivered, a mix of fear and pleasure coursing through me.

He teased me, his fingers circling my clit, sending waves of pleasure through my body.

I couldn't help but moan, my body arching against his. "Please," I begged, unsure of what I was begging for.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "Please what, Emily?" He slipped a finger inside me, his thumb still circling my clit.

I moaned, my body trembling with need. He pulled his finger out, his thumb still circling my clit. "Please what Emily," he said, his voice a low growl.

"Please stop" I managed to say, despite my body wanting this, it didn't make me feel less cheap.

Did he bring me here to be his sex toy?

He pulled his finger out and adjusted my gown.

"Get ready, we leave by noon." He said and walked away. I just lay on the table, tears forming the corner of my eye.

I didn't move for a while, I couldn't. The table was cold beneath me, but not colder than the numb ache in my chest.

The silence after Marco's footsteps faded was louder than any scream I could let out. I hated the sting between my thighs. I hated the heat still lingering on my skin. I hated that I didn't hate it enough.

I slid off the edge of the table, adjusting my gown with shaking fingers, my breath catching in my throat.

Was this marriage? Was this punishment? Or something worse, ownership?

I stumbled back to my room, avoiding the maids who watched me too closely, their eyes sharp with judgment, or maybe jealousy. I couldn't tell.

The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I crumbled.

I wanted to scrub his touch off my skin, I wanted to forget the way his voice made me feel.

But mostly, I wanted to understand myself, how could fear and desire exist in the same breath? How could my body respond when my mind screamed no?

I curled up on the bed, pulling the sheets around me like armor.

This mansion, this marriage, this man, none of it belonged to me. Marco Martini had carved himself into my story with brutal precision.

I would survive him, I had to, even if it meant losing parts of myself along the way. Even if it meant becoming a woman I didn't recognize.

Because he might own my time, he might own my name.

But he would never own my fire.

Not ever!