The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of candlelight casting tall, distorted shadows against the stone walls. She knelt in the center, heart hammering in her chest, her breath shallow with fear — and something deeper, something she didn’t dare name.
He stood before her, silent. Watching.
Judging.
When he moved, it was without warning. A sharp step closer, the sudden heat of his presence sinking into her skin. She flinched instinctively — and immediately regretted it.
His fingers found her chin, rougher than she had imagined, tilting her face up so she had no choice but to meet his eyes. They were dark. Hungry. Amused.
The pad of his thumb pressed against her lower lip, firm enough that it almost hurt. Almost.
She dared not move. Dared not breathe.
His first touch was not soft. It was claiming, brutal in its simplicity — as if he were marking her, wordlessly telling her: you are mine now.
And somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the trembling vulnerability, a part of her thrilled at the violence of it — the way he didn’t ask, didn’t coax.
He took.
Her body betrayed her with a shudder, a silent offering.
A quiet, broken sound slipped from her throat — half a plea, half surrender.
He smiled then, slow and predatory, and leaned down so that his breath ghosted hot against her ear.
"Good girl," he murmured.
And the real claiming had only just begun. |
