Chapter 3 The Punishment

The ropes cut deeper into my wrists as he stepped closer, each sound of his polished shoes against the marble floor tightening the knot of dread in my chest. The room was too quiet, the kind of silence that made every breath loud, every heartbeat thunderous in my ears.

He smelled faintly of whiskey and cedar, sharp and intoxicating, but beneath it was something darker, violence, barely leashed. His shadow swallowed me whole when he stopped in front of me.

Then his hand shot out, wrapping around my neck.

The shock of his touch made me gasp, cold fingers squeezing just enough to remind me how easily he could end me. My pulse hammered against his grip, begging for air.

"You still remember how you held me in bed, right?" he said, voice low, thick with accusation.

My lungs burned. I clawed for words, my throat straining against his hold. "I've... never met you before," I cried, tears slipping hot down my cheeks. "I would never, I have never been in your bed!"

His gaze sharpened, the fury there slicing me open. His thumb pressed harder against the hollow of my throat. "You say that," he sneered, "because it's your usual job."

The words struck harder than his grip. Shame, anger, fear, everything collided inside me until my body moved before I could stop it. My hand shot up, palm connecting with his cheek in a sharp, resounding crack.

The sound echoed in the vast chamber. My own hand stung from the force.

"How dare you," I spat, my chest heaving. "How dare you call me that!" My tears blurred him into shadows, but my rage burned through the haze. "Are you drunk? Blind? You're mistaking me for someone else, and I will not stand here crying while you call me a slut!"

For a heartbeat, the world froze. His face didn't move. His dark eyes locked onto me, unreadable.

Then his jaw ticked.

"You dare..." His voice was a storm breaking, the warning crack before lightning strikes. Every inch of me trembled, though I forced myself to stay still, my chin lifted despite the terror crawling through me. If he wanted me to beg, he would have to kill me first.

But then, he did the strangest thing. He let out a slow breath, unclenching his jaw. His fingers loosened around my throat. And then he laughed.

It wasn't kind. It wasn't a relief. It was sharp, mocking, edged in danger.

"Ahh..." he drawled, shaking his head as though amused by a child's tantrum. "So. Let me ask, what's your new name?"

I blinked through the blur of tears. "That is not your concern," I snapped, though my voice cracked. "Let me go. Kidnapping is a very serious crime."

"Crime?" He tilted his head, his lips curving, but there was nothing warm in it. "You think the law protects women like you? Fine. Tell me your name, and I'll consider it."

The rope dug into my skin as I straightened, swallowing down the tremor in my chest. "Silesia," I whispered. Then louder: "My name is Silesia."

For a moment, silence stretched. His brows lifted. And then, he laughed again, louder this time. A deep, dangerous laugh that rolled through the room.

He covered his face with one hand, shoulders shaking. "So you didn't just change your personality but also your name overnight."

My heart sank. He thought I was mocking him.

"What are you talking about?" I demanded, my voice raw.

His hand fell away from his face. His eyes were darker than ever, fixed on me with a predator's hunger. "So you're saying you didn't sleep with me?"

"No!" My voice rang too loudly in the chamber, breaking on the edges of panic. "Like I said, this is the first time I've even been in this city."

"Ah, I see..." His voice shifted, low and smooth, like the edge of a blade drawn slowly. "I was going to give you a different punishment. But since you claim you haven't slept with me..." He leaned forward, his smile cruel. "Why not refresh your memory?"

The words sliced straight through me. My stomach churned cold. "Wh... what?" I barely breathed.

He stepped closer. One, two, three strides, until he towered over me again, his shadow swallowing the light. Fear clamped around my ribs, crushing me.

My chest rose and fell too fast, air scraping against my throat. The scent of him, rich whiskey and steel, smothered me. My back pressed against the table, nowhere left to retreat.

"You don't know what I'm talking about?" His tone mocked innocence. He leaned down until his breath was hot against my ear. "I'll remind you."

My body shook. "No...please..I'm not her! You have the wrong person!" My voice cracked, breaking into sobs.

But he didn't stop.

---

The ropes were ripped free, but not in mercy. His hands seized my wrists before I could even think of escape, slamming them into the silk sheets stretched across the massive bed. The fabric was cold, too smooth, burning against my skin as though it mocked me with its softness.

I kicked, twisted, thrashed like a wild thing caught in a hunter's snare. My sobs scraped raw against my throat.

"Please," I sobbed, my throat raw, scraped from fear and the desperate cries I'd made earlier. "it's not me."

His hand, iron on my wrists, tightened. "Do you think I'm a fool?" he hissed, his voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrated through the mattress. "You played me once. You won't play me again."

The taste of my tears, salty and bitter, lingered on his lips. How could he know? How could he confuse me with her? Doubt, sharp and unwelcome, slid like a crack into his certainty, a fleeting flicker in the depths of his obsidian eyes. I saw it, a momentary hesitation, gone in a blink. Then he forced his lips onto mine, a brutal, punishing kiss. His mouth was hard, demanding, tasting of something metallic and dark. My stomach churned. I tried to pull away, to turn my head, but his grip was absolute. My mind screamed, but no sound escaped.

Then, a sudden, desperate surge of defiance. My teeth found purchase, closing down hard on his lower lip. A sharp gasp tore from his throat. I tasted blood, warm and coppery, mixing with my tears. His grip faltered, just for a second.

He pulled back, a low growl rumbling in his chest. His lip, split and bleeding, gleamed crimson against his pale skin. His eyes, still blazing with fury, now held a glint of surprise, of pain. He dragged his hand down, ripping the flimsy fabric of my dress. A tearing sound, loud in the sudden silence. The thin cotton gave way easily, exposing my shivering body to the cool air, to his burning gaze. He tore at my undergarments, the cheap lace shredding under his impatient fingers. My breasts, small and pale, were suddenly bare, nipples tightening in the chill. He stripped me bare, then himself, his hard self springing free from the confines of his trousers, thick and angry.

He pressed down, his weight crushing, pinning me. My legs were trapped between his, my body splayed beneath him. He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling me up, angling me. I squeezed my eyes shut, a silent plea.

Then, the first searing pain. A blinding, white-hot agony tore through me, ripping from me a cry I didn't know I was capable of. The sound clawed its way out of my chest, high and broken, shattering the cold air of the room. A raw, animalistic shriek. My body arched, spasming, not with pleasure, but with a tearing, burning pain that consumed my entire being. I felt a wet, hot gush, something warm and sticky between my legs.

For the first time, he stilled. His weight remained, but the frantic, brutal thrusting ceased. His gaze dropped to my face, confusion flickering in the depths of his fury. My tears weren't calculated. They streamed down my temples, soaking the silk pillow, hot and endless. My body trembled, not with guilt but with shock, with something too raw to fake.

"You..." His voice cracked, the iron faltering, replaced by a guttural sound of disbelief. He pulled back slightly, just enough to see. His eyes widened, fixing on my inner thighs, on the gush of blood that stained the white silk sheets beneath me, seeping into the fabric, a stark, undeniable crimson. "You're bleeding?"

I curled inward, arms flying up to cover myself, though it was useless. My body shivered like a wounded bird, every muscle trembling, every nerve screaming. The sobs wouldn't stop, spilling from me like a broken dam, ragged gasps for air.

His grip loosened. Slowly. Hesitantly. Matteo Loki, the man who broke others for sport, hesitated. I saw it. A flicker of doubt in those obsidian eyes, a crack in his cold facade. His chest rose and fell once, sharply, like something inside him had shifted, had been irrevocably altered. He told himself it didn't matter. I could see it in the tightening of his jaw, the hardening of his stare. Virgin or not, thief or not, he wanted me to pay. But beneath that steel, something gnawed at him. Something had fractured his certainty.

The door creaked, a soft, almost imperceptible sound that cut through the thick tension.