Naomi
But he hadn't erased everything. Faint, fingerprint-shaped bruises were blooming on my hips and waist. A dark, distasteful mark discolored the skin on my neck where he had bitten and sucked. My wrists were raw and red from his brutal grip. These were the only proof, the only story my body could tell now.
I tried to sit up again, gritting my teeth against the throbbing ache, but my body refused to cooperate. A sob broke from my chest. I gave up, pulling the heavy blanket back over my head, creating a small, dark space to hide in. And there, under the covers in the heart of his territory, I finally let myself break. I cried, silent, racking sobs that shook my entire frame. It was gone. My virginity. Stolen. Ripped away from me by the man I was forced to call my husband.
**
An hour later, the silence in the room was broken by the soft, decisive click of the door opening. Naomi, who had been drifting in and out of a pained, fitful sleep, flinched violently. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the black duvet up over her head, creating a dark fortress. She held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs, and prayed he would think she was still unconscious.
Heavy, unhurried footsteps crossed the room. "Don't bother," Xavier's voice cut through the fabric, flat and devoid of warmth. "I know you're up, wife."
The word 'wife' was a stone dropped into the pit of her stomach. She heard him walk around the bed, his footsteps muffled by the expensive rug. A tray was placed on the nightstand with a faint clink of ceramic against wood.
"Sit up and eat," he commanded. "We need to talk."
Naomi just whimpered from under the blankets, the sound small and pathetic. "I can't," she whispered, her voice cracking. The mere thought of moving sent a fresh wave of agony through her lower body.
Xavier let out an exasperated sigh, a sound of pure annoyance. In one swift, brutal motion, he ripped the blankets off her. The sudden rush of cool air made her gasp. Before she could react, his arm, a band of unyielding steel, wrapped around her torso. He hauled her upright, ignoring her sharp cry of pain as her muscles screamed in protest. He manhandled her until her back was thumped against the padded headboard, leaving her slumped and trembling.
"There," he said, his tone clinical, as if he were positioning an object. "Now eat. I'll be back in fifteen minutes." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur right next to her ear. "Eat. Or else."
He straightened up and, without a backward glance, walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Naomi was left alone, staring at the tray on the nightstand. A bowl of what looked like roast chicken, and baked potatoes, a piece of plain toast, and a glass of orange. It wasn't just a meal; it was a command. And the threat of what would happen if she disobeyed hung in the air, heavier and more suffocating than the blankets she had just been hiding under.
The nausea was a persistent, bitter tide in her throat, but Naomi forced the food down anyway.
Every bite was a battle, the roasted chicken and seasoned potatoes tasting like ash and bile in her mouth. She had no choice. The memory of his cold, final "or else" was a far more potent motivator than her own body's rebellion.
She ate with a mechanical detachment, her fork scraping against the fine china, the sound unnaturally loud in the silent room. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that he was capable of things far worse than the agony she had endured last night.
Precisely fifteen minutes later, the bathroom door clicked open. Xavier emerged, and Naomi's breath hitched in her chest.
A towel was wrapped low around his hips, leaving the sculpted planes of his torso and abdomen on full display. A fine trail of dark hair disappeared beneath the towel's edge, drawing the eye to the sharp, defined V-lines that framed his hips. Water droplets still clung to his golden skin, catching the dim light and making him shimmer.
She couldn't look away. It was a traitorous, unwelcome reaction, but her eyes roamed over him, drinking in the sight. She couldn't see this in the dark, chaotic terror of the forest.
In the cold light of day, stripped of his suit and menace, he was breathtakingly handsome. His body was a masterpiece of lean muscle and raw power, the body of a Greek god carved from marble and sin.
And it was a canvas. Intricate ink covered his skin, telling stories she couldn't begin to decipher.
A collection of grinning skulls was etched onto his left shoulder, their hollow eyes seeming to watch her. On his right side, near his waist, was a small, exquisitely detailed rose, its delicate petals encircled by a wicked ring of thorns.
But the tattoo that seized her attention, that made her heart ache with a confusion she didn't want, was on his left pectoral muscle, right over his heart. It was a small, perfect footprint—the footprint of a baby. And beneath it, in stark, simple numerals, was: 26-08.
Her mind reeled. 26-08. That's the combination to his office. Why would he get it tattooed on his body? Did it mean something more? Was it a date? August 26th Maybe? Does he have a baby? The thought was so jarring, so out of place with the monster she knew him to be, that it sent a fresh wave of turmoil through her.
No, Naomi, she thought fiercely, tearing her gaze away and staring down at her empty plate. It's none of your business. She had to push it all away—the handsome face, the god-like body, the inked mysteries that hinted at a life and a past she knew nothing about. He was her captor, her rapist, her forced husband. Nothing else mattered.
As if summoned by her thoughts, he moved. He approached the bed, his steps silent on the thick carpet, and the air grew heavy and charged once more. The beautiful, tattooed man was gone, replaced by the terrifying husband who owned her, body and soul.
Xavier
The scalding hot water beat down on my shoulders, a welcome heat that did little to soothe the primal fucking urge still coiled in my gut. I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the cool tile, and the image of Naomi in my bed flashed behind my eyelids. Not the crying, broken version, but the one I'd just left. The one covered in my marks.
Fuck, she was a masterpiece. Her soft, pale skin was a perfect canvas for the dark blooms of my possession. The fingerprint bruises on her hips, the mottled mark on her neck where I'd claimed her, the raw redness around her wrists—each one was a signature, a declaration that she was mine.
I remembered how she'd looked when I yanked the blanket off her, how her nipples had pebbled instantly from the cold air and the shock of exposure. It was a fucking beautiful sight. Her body knew who it belonged to, even if her stupid, romantic mind was still fighting it.
The thought made my dick twitch, a thick, heavy throb against my thigh. A savage urge rose in me, a desire to storm back in there, throw her legs over my shoulders, and fuck her so hard she'd forget her own goddamn name.
I wanted to cover every inch of her untouched skin with more marks, to bite her, to bruise her, until the only thing she saw when she looked in the mirror was me.
But no. I had a plan. Control wasn't just about taking what you wanted, when you wanted it. It was about making them give it to you.
I shut off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel and slinging it low around my hips. Water droplets clung to my chest, tracing paths over the skulls and thorns of my past. As I walked out of the bathroom, I saw it instantly. Her eyes. They were wide, locked onto my body, raking over my chest, my abs, the tattoos that told a story she'd never be a part of. She wasn't looking at me like a monster anymore. She was looking at me like a woman looks at a man. Awestruck, and maybe a little bit hungry.
A dark, vicious satisfaction curled in my chest. She saw it. She saw the power, the body of a man who takes what he wants. And fuck if it didn't make me want to grab her by that pretty, tangled hair of hers, force her to her fucking knees, and make her wrap those soft lips around my cock until she was choking on it. I wanted to see those defiant eyes tear up as I fucked her mouth, to teach her what her new purpose was.
I walked toward the bed, my cock already starting to harden under the towel. But first, we talk. The fun could wait a little longer.
**
The mattress dipped beside her, and Naomi flinched, her entire body going rigid. Xavier sat down, his proximity a suffocating weight. He glanced at the empty tray on the nightstand, a cruel smirk twisting his lips.
"I see you can follow instructions for once," he said, his voice a low, mocking purr. "Although it took a demonstration for you to obey." He shifted slightly, his gaze boring into her. "But don't worry, we will have plenty of time to correct this attitude of yours."
As he spoke, his hand reached out, not for her, but for the handle of the nightstand drawer. Naomi, who sat in a state of terrified confusion on the bed, felt a new wave of panic crash over her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of dread. What was he getting? A knife? A gun? Her mind raced through a hundred horrifying possibilities.
Before she could even process the thought, before she could scramble away, his hand shot out with blinding speed. He grabbed her wrist, his grip a steel vise. In his other hand, he held a black, metal cuff. With a swift, practiced motion, he snapped it shut around her wrist. The cold, unforgiving click of metal connecting with the headboard echoed in the silent room, a sound of finality that chilled her to the bone.
He had cuffed her to the bed.
Then he stood up and stepped back, looking at his handiwork with a detached, analytical gaze, like an artist admiring a sculpture. "Good," he said, his voice flat, cold, and final. "Since you don't know how to behave when you're given freedom, I might as well take it away. You seem to enjoy living like a prisoner. I'll treat you like one."
Panic, pure and paralyzing, seized her. She tugged against the cuff, the metal biting into her skin, but it was useless. The freedom she had so desperately tried to win back was gone, snatched away with a single, brutal click, replaced by the cold, hard reality of her new life.
Xavier began to pace slowly at the foot of the bed, his movements fluid and predatory, like a caged tiger finally given room to stalk. He looked down at her, a look of profound, almost paternal disappointment on his face.
"I have tried time and time again to be lenient with you," he began, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I gave you a beautiful room, fine clothes, freedom of the house. But you just don't seem to get it, do you?" He stopped pacing and turned to face her fully, his hands on his hips. "Well, you're in luck now, wife, 'cause I am gonna teach you."
He took a step closer, his shadow falling over her again. "I can't have a disobedient woman standing by the side of a mafia boss of high stature such as myself. No, no, no." He shook his head, the gesture dripping with condescension. "It reflects poorly on me. It shows weakness. And I am not weak."
A cruel smile touched his lips. "I will teach you. I will show you how to be a proper mafia wife, how to be seen and not heard, how to stand by my side and look pretty without causing any fucking trouble. Since your sister and father failed so miserably at their jobs, it seems the task falls to me."
He stood up straight, his lecture apparently over. He looked at her, chained and trembling, with a sense of grim satisfaction. "You can rest up for today," he said, his tone becoming dismissive. "Tomorrow, the real training will start."
With that final, chilling promise, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the massive walk-in closet. The door slid shut behind him with a soft, definitive click, leaving Naomi alone in the silent, grey room, the cold metal of the cuff a constant, biting reminder of the hell that was about to begin.