Chapter 4 CHAPTER 4
Tessa's POV
My body remembered before my mind did. A cold sweat slicked my skin, and my heart beat a frantic drum against my ribs. I was back there. On that bed.
The smell of him—whiskey, iron, and sweat—clogged my throat.
“On your knees. Ass in the air.”
The words were a brand on my brain. I felt the ghost of his fist in my hair, the brutal pull that forced my hips up and my face down. I obeyed.
My body was not my own. My spirit crawled into a dark corner inside me, hiding.
Then he pushed himself inside me. It was a tearing, brutal invasion that ripped me open. My breath left me in a strangled gasp. There was no space for him, but he forced his way in anyway, stretching me to the point of splitting.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
My back arched, a scream trapped in my sealed throat. My mind was a frantic animal, searching for a way out.
Breathe, a voice begged inside my skull. Don’t fight. It only hurts more when you fight.
I stared at the sheets under my cheek, counting the threads, trying to become small enough to hide between them.
But then I felt it.
A traitorous throb. A deep, hot pulse inside my own body, answering each of his brutal, rhythmic shoves.
Shame flooded me, so hot it felt like a fever. How could my own flesh do this? How could a part of me feel a flicker of sensation that wasn’t pure agony while he was violating me?
It was another kind of invasion—proof that he owned even my body’s secret, unwanted responses.
I choked on a sob, my hands fisting in the silk.
And then it got worse.
A low, rumbling growl vibrated through the bed, through my bones. The weight on top of me changed—grew heavier, larger. The skin against my back and thighs turned coarse, becoming thick fur.
The hands gripping my hips were no longer hands. They were paws, claws digging deep into my flesh, piercing me, holding me perfectly still for his use.
His thrusts became something else. They were deeper, harder, monstrous. It felt like he was trying to shove his way up into my very guts, to break my pelvis with the force of it.
“Mine,” a voice—thick and animal—snarled into my ear.
It wasn’t a man anymore. It was Dmitri's beast and it was marking what it owned.
A sharp, searing pain lashed across my back as his claws raked down my skin. I smelled my own blood, a sharp copper tang mixing with his wild, musky stink.
This was death. He was going to tear me apart from the inside out.
Please, just let it be over. Just let me die.
My vision dimmed, the world going black and quiet. The pain became a distant, throbbing echo as I finally, blessedly, fell into nothing.
—
I woke gasping, my body convulsing like I'd been drowning.
Air. I need air.
My lungs wouldn't work. Each breath came too shallow, too fast, not enough. The room spun. My fingers clawed at the sheets beneath me—soft, clean sheets that smelled like lavender and sage, not blood and him.
But it didn't matter. I was still there. Still feeling it.
The tearing. The claws. The beast's growl vibrating through my bones.
Mine.
"No," I choked out, my voice raw and broken. "No, no, no—"
My hands flew to my throat, trying to force the air down, but my body refused to obey. The walls closed in. The ceiling pressed down. I couldn't see anything but shadows and the memory of fur and fangs and—
He's here. He's going to come back. He's going to finish what he started.
A whimper tore from my throat. I tried to sit up, to run, but my body screamed in protest. Pain lanced through my back, my hips, between my legs. Fresh tears burned hot trails down my cheeks.
I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the roaring panic that said he's coming, he's coming, you're going to die—
"Child."
The word cut through the static in my head. Soft. Steady. Safe.
"Breathe with me, child. In through your nose. Slowly now."
I latched onto that voice like a lifeline. An old woman's voice. Not his. Not a beast's snarl.
I tried. Managed half a breath before it hitched.
"Good. Again. You're safe here. In, slowly. Hold it. Out."
My eyes darted around the room, finally seeing it. Stone walls. Shelves lined with jars and dried herbs. A small fire crackling in the hearth. Soft afternoon light filtering through a narrow window.
Not his chambers.
Not that massive bed where he—
"That's it. Keep breathing."
An old woman appeared at my bedside, her weathered face creased with concern. She had kind eyes—pale gray, like storm clouds after the rain. Her hand hovered near mine but didn't touch.
"You're in the healing wing," she said quietly. "My name is Meira. You've been unconscious for two days."
Two days.
My throat worked, but no sound came out.
Meira reached for a cup on the side table, bringing it to my lips. "Small sips. Your body has been through considerable trauma."
The water was cool, soothing against my raw throat. I managed three sips before pulling back.
"Where..." The word scraped out of me. "Where is he?"
I didn't need to say his name. We both knew who I meant.
Meira's expression tightened slightly. "The King is occupied with other matters. He won't disturb you while you're healing."
Won't disturb me. As if he hadn't already destroyed me.
A bitter laugh tried to claw its way up, but I swallowed it down. It would hurt too much.
"You're safe here," Meira repeated, and something in her tone made me believe her. Or maybe I was just too tired, too broken, to do anything else.
I sank back against the pillows—carefully, because every movement sent fresh waves of pain through my battered body.
Safe.
The word felt foreign. Impossible.
But at least I wasn't in his chambers.
At least I could breathe.
For now, that would have to be enough.
\---
I focused on small things. The way the firelight danced across the stone wall. The gentle pop and crackle of burning wood. The herbal scent in the air—chamomile, maybe, or something earthier.
My heartbeat was finally slowing. The terrible, clawing panic loosening its grip on my chest.
You're alive. You survived. Just keep breathing.
But when I glanced at Meira, I found her staring at me.
Not the clinical assessment of a healer checking her patient. Something else. Her gray eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted, like she was trying to solve a puzzle written in a language she'd never seen before.
My stomach tightened.
What did I do? Did I say something wrong? Does she know?
"Is... is something wrong?" My voice came out smaller than I intended.
Meira blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. Then her lips curved—not quite a smile, but close. Thoughtful. Almost... impressed?
"You're intriguing," she said softly.