Chapter 128: Behind the Mask

RAVIAL

I watched her the moment she stepped through those double doors.

My wife.

My little lamb.

Masked.

Fucking radiant.

The Emerald dress poured over her like liquid sin clinging to every goddamn curve I’d memorized with my eyes, mouth, my hands, my cock. Those long dark curls tumbling down her back, brushing the top of her perfect, round ass. That deep neckline shoving her full tits up like a sacrifice. The mask, gold and emeralds framing those big hazel eyes I could pick out in a blackout.

I knew her instantly.

No mask in existence could hide her from me.

I’d know her heartbeat in a stadium of screaming souls.

I’d know her scent if the world burned to ash.

And every single bastard in this room was looking at her.

Eyes crawling over her tits, her waist, her hips, her ass. Everything that belonged to me and me Alone.

My vision tunneled red.

The champagne flute in my hand shattered.

Glass sliced into my palm. Blood dripped onto the floor.

Staffs rushed to my aid and to wipe up the mess but I didn't look their way.

I didn’t care.

They were looking at my wife.

And then she danced with Elias fucking Monroe.

His hand on her waist.

Her body swaying into his.

Smiling behind that mask like she didn’t belong to me.

I almost ripped his throat out right there.

But I’m not a mere mortal.

Control is my oldest lover.

So I waited.

Watched.

Burned.

And when she finally slipped away from him, searching the crowd…I moved.

She didn’t see me coming.

She never does.

I pressed in behind her at the champagne table.

Close enough to feel her heat.

Close enough to smell her, vanilla, orchid, confusion.

She froze.

I leaned down, my lips at her ear.

“Is it to your taste?”

She spun.

Eyes wide behind the mask.

Face flushed.

Breath hitching.

“Reculez, s’il vous plaît,” she whispered in French, voice trembling. “Vous êtes trop près.” (Step back, please. You’re too close.)

I didn’t move.

I smiled.

“Vous parlez français comme si vous étiez née dedans,” I murmured. “Et pourtant… vous tremblez.” (You speak French like you were born to it. And yet… you’re trembling.)

Her pupils blew.

She knew.

She fucking knew it was me.

But she didn’t break character.

Good girl.

She lifted her chin still playing Madame Élodie Duval.

“Vous êtes très audacieux, monsieur,” she said, voice shaking just enough to make my cock throb. “Je ne suis pas ici pour… ça.” (You’re very bold, sir. I’m not here for… that.)

I leaned closer, my chest brushing her tits.

“Vraiment?” (Really?)

I let my hand drift, fingertips grazing her hip, then sliding to the small of her back, pressing her tighter against me.

She gasped, so soft, and needy.

“Dansez avec moi,” I ordered. (Dance with me.)

She opened her mouth ready to refuse.

Then something wicked flashed in her eyes.

Her lips curled into a coy smile.

“Oui,” she whispered. “Avec plaisir.” (Yes. With pleasure.)

I almost snapped right there.

She thought I didn’t know.

She thought I was flirting with a stranger.

She thought I was about to fuck another woman.

And it pissed her off.

Good.

I wanted her jealous.

I wanted her feral.

I wanted her to feel even a fraction of the madness she makes me feel every second she breathes.

I took her hand.

Led her to the floor.

Yanked her flush against me, her chest crushed to my chest, hips locked to mine, her soft belly pressed to my aching cock.

She gasped again, louder.

I smiled against her ear.

“Vous tremblez encore,” I whispered. “Nerveuse?” (You’re still trembling. Nervous?)

She swallowed.

“Peut-être… vous êtes intimidant.” (Perhaps… you’re intimidating.)

My smirk deepened.

“Bon.” (Good.)

We moved, bodies fused, waltz be damned.

Every step ground her against me.

Every turn made her tits drag across my chest.

Every breath she took pushed her harder into my cock.

I was so hard it hurt.

And she was letting me touch her.

She thought I didn’t know.

She thought I was cheating.

And it was tearing her apart.

I could feel it, her body trembling with rage, jealousy, hurt.

Perfect.

I leaned down, my lips brushing her temple.

“Quel est votre nom?” she asked in French, voice shaking. (What is your name?)

I smiled against her skin.

“I’ll keep that to myself for now.”

Her breath caught.

She recovered fast.

“Tu as une femme?.” (Do you have a wife?)

“Ma femme?” (My wife?)

“Je ne pense pas à elle ce soir.” (I’m not thinking about her tonight.)

She gasped, a sharp, wounded sound.

Tears shimmered behind her mask.

I felt them.

Felt her heart crack.

Felt her rage.

She thought I didn’t care.

She thought I was about to fuck someone else.

While she—my wife—was right here.

Dancing with me.

I almost came in my pants.

She lifted her chin, voice trembling with fury.

“Alors… vous préférez les inconnues?” (So… you prefer strangers?)

I leaned closer, lips grazing her ear.

“Seulement quand elles tremblent comme vous.” (Only when they tremble like you.)

My hand slid lower cupping her ass, squeezing hard.

She whimpered.

I pulled her tighter—bodies locked, no air between us.

Her nipples were hard against my chest.

Her thighs trembled.

She was wet, I could smell it.

And she was furious.

I spun her, fast, and rough,then yanked her back.

Her back to my chest.

My arm banded around her waist.

My cock pressed against her ass.

I growled into her ear.

“Vous n’avez aucune idée de ce que vous venez de réveiller.” (You have no idea what you just woke up.)

She shivered—rage and want twisting together.

I spun her again, facing me.

I looked down at her, the mask hiding my eyes, but she felt the heat.

“Voulez-vous monter avec moi?” (Do you want to go upstairs with me?)

Her breath hitched.

But she nodded.

I grabbed her hand.

Pulled her through the crowd.

Up the grand staircase.

Down a shadowed hallway.

Into a private VIP room.

Door slammed shut.

I spun her and pressed her back to the wall.

Pinned her wrists above her head with one hand.

Loomed over her.

She was breathing hard, chest heaving, tits straining against silk.

Tears streaked down her cheeks.

I leaned in—lips hovering over hers.

And she slapped me.

Hard.

The crack echoed in the room.

She ripped off her mask—crying, furious, beautiful.

“So you were about to sleep with another person?” she choked out in Bislama creole. “You were going to cheat on me?”

I froze.

Shock.

Then, slow, savage joy.

I smiled, wide, feral, and proud.

I wrapped my hand around her throat and slammed her harder against the door.

And kissed her, brutal, claiming, devouring.

She gasped into my mouth—shocked—then kissed me back—fierce, angry, desperate.

I pulled away just enough to growl against her lips:

“I knew it was you, my lamb.”

Her eyes widened, stunned.

“Right before I approached you.”

She stared at me—tears still falling, lips swollen.

I tightened my grip on her throat—just enough to feel her pulse racing.

“I knew every inch of you the second you stepped through those doors,” I rasped. “I knew your walk. Your scent. Your heartbeat. No mask hides you from me.”

She whimpered.

I dragged my mouth down her throat—biting, sucking, marking.

“You thought I was going to fuck another woman?” I growled. “You thought I’d touch anyone but you?”

She sobbed, half rage, half need.

I ripped the straps of her gown down.

Her tits spilled free, full, perfect, nipples hard.

I sucked one into my mouth.

She cried out—back arching.

I bit down sharply.

She moaned.

I lifted her—legs wrapping around my waist on instinct.

Carried her to the chaise—dropped her.

Peeled the rest of her gown off.

She was naked—gorgeous, glistening, mine.

I shoved her thighs apart.

“Look at you,” I snarled. “Wet for a man you thought was cheating.”

She sobbed, fingers clawing my shoulders.

“Mi mad at yu,” she cried.

I laughed.

“No you aren't.”

I freed my cock, already hard and leaking.

Slammed into her with no warning.

She screamed, her nails raking my back.

I fucked her,hard, deep, punishing.

“You’re mine,” I growled with every thrust. “Say it.”

“Yours…” she sobbed. “Yours, Ravial,yours—”

I wrapped my hand around her throat again—squeezing just enough to cut off her air supply for a few seconds.

“You let him dance with you,” I snarled. “Let him touch you. Let him think he could have you.”

She cried harder—hips bucking up to meet mine.

“Mi sorry…” she gasped.

I slammed deeper, hitting that spot that made her scream.

“You’re going to pay for that, lamb.”

I flipped her, face down, ass up.

Slammed back in, harder.

Hand in her hair yanking her head back.

“You’re going to take every inch,” I growled. “Every drop. Until you forget anyone else’s name and touch.”

She sobbed—pushing back onto me.

“Yes, please, Ravial—”

I fucked her like I was trying to break her.

Like I was trying to crawl inside her soul.

Because I was.

“You’re mine,” I snarled again—voice cracking. “Mine to fuck. Mine to love. Mine to have.”

She came, screaming my name clenching so tight I saw fuckin stars.

I followed, spilling deep, marking her inside.

Collapsed over her, both of us shaking.

I kissed her shoulder, soft now.

Whispered against her skin:

“I’d burn this world before I touched another woman.”

She turned her head, tears still falling.

“Mi know now mi Ravial,” she whispered.

I kissed her again.

“I love you,” I said, my voice raw. “More than anything. More than control. More than eternity.”

She smiled, so damn beautiful.

“Mi tingting blong yu,” she whispered.

I closed my eyes and pressed our forehead together.