I felt the warmth of the soft sunlight caressing my skin, gentle and soothing, like the tenderest of whispers against my body. For a fleeting moment, I cocooned myself in the comforting embrace enveloping me, his arms wrapped tightly around me as if shielding me from the world. His scent, musky and intoxicating, surrounded me, drowning out every other sensation. But then it hit me-a tidal wave of pain crashing over me, raw and unrelenting, threatening to drown me in its ferocity.
My body felt like it had been shattered and pieced back together with jagged shards. My head throbbed as though someone had taken a hammer to it, each beat echoing through my skull. My throat was raw, parched as if I had screamed into the void until I had no voice left to give. Tears stung my swollen eyes, a reminder of the ocean of grief and anguish I had shed. Every muscle in my body ached with a dull, gnawing intensity, yet there were places where the pain was sharper, more piercing, impossible to ignore.
The lower half of me felt alien-foreign and numb, as though the pain had overpowered my ability to feel. My ass felt marked with phantom claws, every touch of the air against them igniting a sharp sting. My chest throbbed, my breasts tender and bruised as if cruel teeth had claimed them. And the most intimate parts of me-the parts I couldn't even think about without shame and horror-felt torn apart. I could still feel the holes stretch, the ache of something too large, too intrusive, leaving its mark deep inside me. My hips, my backside, my very core-everything burned, raw and violated.
I lay still, too afraid to move, too terrified to see the physical evidence of the damage I already felt. My mind was a whirlpool of fragmented memories, flashes of red light and twisted shadows. The room came back to me then-a dark, suffocating place I could barely stand to think about. The red room.
I clenched my eyes shut, willing the images away, but they came nonetheless. The way Adam looked at me there, the way his demeanor shifted, unrecognizable and primal. He called me his kitten, his little pet, stripping me not just of my rights but of my humanity. My voice, my will, my very essence became meaningless in that room. It was a place where the lines of pain and pleasure blurred, where he turned into something monstrous and expected me to follow.
I wanted to scream, to cry, to claw my way out of my own skin and erase every second of it. But instead, I lay there, cocooned in his embrace, paralyzed by the weight of my own shattered soul.
I felt the stir of his body before his eyes fluttered open. His gaze met mine, soft and intimate, as though he saw nothing else in the world. Then came that smile-his devastating, heart-stopping smile that could weaken even the strongest resolve. He leaned in, brushing a feather-light kiss against my bruised lips. The touch was tender, yet it sent a jolt of pain through me, and I whimpered softly.
His lips, too, bore marks from the night before, faint cuts and dried blood that matched the chaos of my own. Seeing them, a bittersweet pride swelled in me. I had fought back, even if it barely showed.
"Good morning, sweetie," he murmured, his voice deep and warm, pulling me into a strong embrace.
A sharp pain radiated through my body, and the words tumbled out before I could stop them. "Ouch... ouch..." It became a mantra of sorts, my aches and bruises making themselves known.
He pulled back immediately, his eyes scanning my face with concern. "Where does it hurt?" he asked, his tone a mixture of worry and teasing, though the smirk tugging at his lips gave away his amusement.
I shot him a look that was half a glare, half exhaustion. He chuckled softly, unbothered, and stood. My gaze lingered on him as he moved toward the bathroom, completely unabashed in his nakedness. My eyes caught the fresh nail marks on his back, small victories from the storm we'd weathered together. It wasn't much, but it was something.
I sighed, letting my gaze wander around the room. This was his bedroom-or rather, ours now. He had insisted on renovating it to reflect my tastes, asking me what colors, textures, and details I wanted. At first, I loved it-the idea of blending our styles into something uniquely ours. But after giving input on nearly 20 other master bedrooms across his homes around the world, I'd stopped caring. I told him I loved his style-minimalist, dark, and clean lines.
It was a lie.
Still, I'd claimed my little corner of this room. The cool blue walls brought warmth to his monochromatic palette, and photographs of us and our families filled one wall, a small rebellion against his otherwise stark aesthetic. It wasn't much, but it felt like mine.
Today, though, the room was transformed. Candles glowed softly on every surface, their gentle flicker casting warm light across the space. Fresh flowers filled the air with the sweet, familiar scent of vanilla. It was intimate, romantic, and so very unlike him.
He returned, breaking my thoughts, a small tray of pills and water in his hands. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he helped me sit up with practiced care.
"Here," he said, holding out the pills. "Painkillers. They'll help you survive the torture." His lips quirked into a faint smile, but his eyes were soft, almost apologetic.
I took them without protest, too drained to argue. He watched me closely, his hands steady as he lifted the glass to my lips. His touch was firm but gentle, his concern an unspoken comfort.
Then, without a word, he scooped me into his arms. My body melted into him, though every bruise and ache screamed in protest. I closed my eyes, trusting him to take care of me. He carried me into the bathroom, where the soft hum of running water greeted us.
He eased me into the bathtub, the warmth of the water enveloping me instantly. I hissed at the sting against my bruised skin, but he slipped in behind me, pulling me against his chest. His arms wrapped around me, holding me as though I might break, as though he couldn't bear to let go.
Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't empty. It was full of unspoken words, of shared breaths and lingering touches. His lips brushed my shoulder, soft and reverent, while his hands moved with care, massaging away the aches in my arms and shoulders.
For all his fire and fury, this was the part that unraveled me the most. The way he cared for me afterward, as if trying to stitch me back together after tearing me apart. It was more than love-it was devotion, raw and unfiltered.
I leaned back into him, letting my head rest against his shoulder. His lips found the curve of my neck, pressing gentle kisses there as his fingers combed through my hair. He washed me with slow, deliberate movements, his touch a quiet apology.
When he finished, he drained the tub and refilled it with fresh water, adding bath salts and bubbles. He kissed my forehead before stepping out, leaving me to soak.
I stayed there for what felt like an eternity, letting the warm water lull me into a haze of comfort. My thoughts drifted, as they always did, circling the same questions.
Why did I stay? Why did I let myself be caught in this endless loop?
I would make a decision, one that felt right, one that felt like mine. And he would challenge it, pulling me deeper into his world, his control. Then, just when I thought I'd lost myself, he'd patch me up, build me back, make me feel like I was in charge of my life. Like I was the captain of my own ship.
But I wasn't.
I wasn't the captain. I was the ship. And he was the one steering.
The thought settled in my chest like a stone. And then it hit me.
The file.
Jack.
I tried to stand, but my legs betrayed me, trembling under my weight. The best I could do was grasp onto the edge of the tub and the cold tiles of the wall as I slowly pulled myself up. Each movement was a struggle, a reminder of the night before, but I pushed through, ignoring the sting in my muscles.
Reaching for the nearest towel, I wrapped it around me, deliberately avoiding both my reflection in the mirror and the marks scattered across my body. He loved them, those signs of his passion and our chaos, and while I loved seeing my marks on him, I hated how mine made me feel-vulnerable, fragile.
I leaned against the bathroom doorframe as I stepped out, my body still weak, though the painkillers had begun to dull the worst of it. My gaze landed on a black T-shirt draped over a chair. It was his, and it smelled faintly of him-spicy and warm, a scent I could lose myself in. Pulling it over my head, I let it fall to my thighs. There was no way I could wear anything else, not with the soreness that lingered in every inch of me.
I wobbled my way out of the room, my hand trailing along the walls for support. The mansion was unfamiliar to me, at least most of it, though I knew the path to the kitchen. I had spent most of my time here in the red room-his domain, where passion and pain intertwined so deeply that it was impossible to separate the two.
As I descended the staircase slowly, gripping the railing for balance, the golden hues of the setting sun caught my eye. The realization hit me-I had been out for nearly an entire day. The house was quiet, save for the soft sounds coming from the kitchen.
The scent of something delicious reached me before I saw him. Standing at the stove, Adam moved with effortless precision, his bare upper body glistening faintly in the light. His track pants hung low on his hips, his every movement exuding control and authority. Watching him cook for me was a private pleasure, one that made my pulse quicken and my cheeks flush. He never cooked for anyone else, and I cherished the intimacy of it.
I slid onto the high stool at the island, my pain momentarily forgotten as I let my eyes drink him in. The way he wielded a knife with such practiced ease, cutting vegetables into perfect pieces without so much as a stray mess, fascinated me. It was as if the kitchen bent to his will, a reminder of how much power and precision he possessed.
His presence was hypnotic, and I was so lost in watching him that I didn't notice Ryan until he spoke.
"Hi, Bella," Ryan greeted, his tone light and teasing as he took the seat next to me. "Finally out of bed, huh? So, how does it feel to be a 'Black'?"
I startled at his sudden appearance, but before I could respond, Adam turned sharply, his eyes narrowing into a dangerous glare. "Move," he said, his voice low and firm.
Ryan chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender as he slid to the other side of the counter, clearly amused by Adam's possessiveness. Adam turned back to the stove, shutting off the burner and plating the food he had been preparing. Thai fish curry and rice-one of my favorites.
He carried the plates to the island, setting one gently in front of me before leaning down to kiss my forehead. His lips lingered, and he whispered, "You enjoyed the show, love?"
A sheepish smile spread across my face, and I nodded, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. He smirked, satisfied, and slid onto the stool beside me, his presence both commanding and comforting.
Ryan broke the quiet moment between us, his tone shifting as he placed two files on the counter. "You were right," he said, his voice serious now. "We missed some things-or rather, someone made sure we overlooked them. We've got a mole in the organization."
Adam's jaw tightened as he reached for the files, flipping through their contents with sharp eyes. I focused on my food, savoring each bite of the warm, flavorful meal. Even if I tried to follow their conversation, it wouldn't matter-they guarded their words around me. Adam told me only what he thought I needed to know: who our allies were, who our enemies were, and who I could trust if things ever went south.
"Take care of this," Adam said, sliding one of the files back to Ryan without looking up. "I'll handle him," he added, his voice carrying the quiet authority that left no room for argument.
Ryan's lips twitched with amusement as his tone shifted from businesslike to casual. "Can I get a glass of water?" he asked, his words deliberately nonchalant.
Adam's glare was cold enough to freeze fire, and Ryan, reveling in the tension, grinned like a mischievous child. I couldn't help the soft laugh that slipped out before I quickly masked it behind a mouthful of rice. Adam's sharp gaze snapped to me, and I lowered my eyes to my plate.
With an air of grudging resignation, Adam stood, clearly aware of Ryan's antics. As soon as he turned his back, Ryan seized the opportunity, sliding into Adam's chair and digging into his plate with exaggerated gusto. I watched, torn between disbelief and amusement.
Adam returned swiftly, smacking Ryan on the head with a plastic water bottle. "Get out," he ordered, his tone firm and dark. Grumbling, Ryan stood, and Adam grabbed a fresh spoon, disdainfully tossing the one Ryan had used onto the kitchen island.
As Ryan left, silence settled over the mansion once more. The only sounds were the soft clinks of cutlery and the quiet rhythm of our breathing. We ate in peace, stealing fleeting glances at one another, savoring the rare sense of tranquility. It felt like a fragile reprieve, a glimpse of what we once had before everything went awry. In these moments, he treated me like glass-delicate, precious, breakable. But I knew this tenderness wouldn't last; once I healed, the roughness would return, and he'd pull me into corners for his passion-filled demands.
I finished the last bite of rice on my plate and ventured hesitantly, "So, what's the plan? Are we staying here or...?" I left the question open, letting him take the lead.
Adam's gaze fixed on me. He had finished his meal long before and now leaned back, studying me intently. "I told you-we're going to Paris. We leave tomorrow afternoon. Did you pack your bags like I asked?" His voice carried a challenging edge.
Panic surged through me. Oh, God. He had mentioned Paris-something about it in the car before our wedding. How had I forgotten? Guilt twisted in my stomach as I recalled my self-pity clouding my memory.
Seeing my stricken expression, Adam rose, collecting our plates and rinsing them before loading the dishwasher. Then, with surprising gentleness, he returned, handing me my medication with a glass of water. He wrapped his arms around me from behind as I swallowed the pills, his touch both comforting and possessive.
I peered up at him through my lashes, my expression apologetic. "I...I forgot," I admitted, my voice small.
A smirk tugged at his lips. "I packed for us," he said, his tone teasing. "The downside for you is that I get to choose what you'll wear. Since I can't spank that beautiful, round ass of yours right now, this will have to do." He pressed kisses into my hair, inhaling deeply, his arms tightening around me.
"Ask me what you really want to know, Bella," he murmured, his lips brushing against my ear.
"The deal...the file," I whispered, feeling exposed under his piercing gaze.
He sighed and guided me to sit beside him. With both hands, he cupped my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "The market research wasn't favorable," he began. "The land for the boutique isn't ideal. The neighborhood is middle-class-traditional families who prioritize saving over luxury spending. However, there's another property. Serene, affordable, and far better suited to the clientele we're targeting."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued, pulling me into his lap. His face nestled into my neck as he pressed soft, lingering kisses along my skin, earning a quiet moan from me.
"The clients are optimistic about their original location. They believe its proximity to a city neighborhood, just sixty miles away, will attract a steady stream of customers. But..." He paused, his lips curving into a smirk against my neck. "They're worried you won't give this project your full attention. Apparently, becoming my wife might be...distracting."
I felt my anger simmering. "So, do they still want me on the project or not?" I demanded, my voice firm.
His hands moved to rub soothing circles on my arms as he chuckled mockingly. "They'll be in Paris at the event we're attending. You'll have a chance to convince them. Just remember-these Europeans don't like mixing pleasure with business."
His lips returned to my neck, this time with a fervor that sent shivers down my spine. His kisses were no longer gentle but deliberate and tantalizing, designed to unravel me.
"You can prepare your pitch on the plane," he murmured between kisses, his voice thick with desire.
I melted against him, my anger momentarily forgotten. "They want me to make the project more viable, don't they?" I asked breathlessly.
"Yes," he admitted. "Their daughter is attached to the land. Something about her falling in love with it."
With that, he lifted me effortlessly into his arms, making me yelp in surprise. Carrying me bridal style, he strode to the living room, placing me carefully on the sofa.
Before I could question him, he returned with a massive bowl of popcorn and a blanket. Sliding next to me, he wrapped the blanket around us, pulling me close. His movements were surprisingly gentle, mindful of the bruises marring my body.
The wall in front of us shifted, revealing a massive TV. He started a horror film-our shared guilty pleasure. I snuggled deeper into him, comforted by his warmth.
The film's eerie scenes didn't frighten us. Instead, we laughed when others would scream, finding humor in the chaos on screen. For a moment, it felt like the old us-before my escape, before his punishments became darker and harsher.
But now, I could only cling to this fleeting peace, knowing it wouldn't last. I drifted off to sleep in his arms, the sound of his soft chuckle lingering in my dreams.
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