95. MRS. DE LA ROCHE

95. MRS. DE LA ROCHE
Arianna

He pinned me down with his other hand, and I didn’t dare to move, terrified of the sharp edge he now held so close. With a slow, deliberate movement, he brought the dagger closer, the tip tracing the skin of my throat, right where the small wound he’d previously inflicted ached dully.

The sharp edge slid across my skin, sending goosebumps down my body, just a whisper of metal against soft flesh.

The air in the chapel, thick with the lingering scent of incense and something metallic I couldn’t quite place, grew colder as I watched him.

His gaze lifted, those piercing gold eyes meeting mine, holding them captive. “It looks like you’re sweating. Let’s get rid of this then,” he purred, the words dripping with a dangerous amusement.

Before I could fully comprehend his intent, he pulled my sweater up in the front and, with a swift, savage motion, sliced the knife across the poor fabric, tearing it open.

The sound of the material ripping was jarring, a brutal interruption to the thick tension that had been humming between us.

“Hey!” I couldn’t help but pout, a childish protest escaping my lips. “It was cute! You ruined it.” I was trying to be angry, to grasp onto any semblance of normalcy in this bizarre, unnerving situation, but my heart was pounding, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs.

He chuckled, the sound low and throaty, sending a shiver of something dangerous down my spine. “The cutest thing in this place is you,” he responded, his voice thick with a wicked, possessive tone.

Then, he destroyed the sweater, the remnants of the soft material falling around me like confetti.

The knife was back on my skin, the cold steel tracing a path from my collarbone down the center of my chest, a torturous game of cat and mouse between the vulnerable curve of my collarbone and the tender skin of my tummy.

I sucked in a breath, freezing when the tip of the knife pressed against my belly button.

His gaze was intent, almost predatory, as he watched my fear, a fascinated glint in those golden eyes.

With a slow, agonizing motion, he slipped the edge of the blade under the strap of my bra, the cold metal against my skin making me tremble.

A terrifying pause hung in the air before he cut open the barrier, the thin fabric coming apart beneath the sharp pull of his knife, sending my breasts spilling out to his hungry gaze.

He tossed the discarded bra somewhere behind the altar and focused on my exposed chest. My nipples hardened instantly, from the chill of the air and the intensity of his stare.

A groan, low and guttural, escaped his lips. It was a soft hiss, a sound of pure, raw desire. “Perfection. Mine. Mrs. De La Roche,” he declared.

His long, aristocratic last name, the name I now bore, a reminder of the twisted ceremony that had bound us together, sent a jolt of excitement through me.

The sound of it, the fact that it was my name now, should have filled me with a certain thrill.

And it did, a dark, twisted sense of excitement that was as disturbing as it was undeniable.

We were married; just a short while ago, and with a simple ceremony we had become one. The sound his name with mine together, it was beautiful, yet terrifying.

The reality of it all, the sheer audacity of this night, made my breath catch in my throat.

“You love that, darling? How my name sounds with yours?” he asked, his voice a silken threat.

Of course, he saw my blush, saw the heat that flooded my skin, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of a response, pressing my lips together stubbornly.

I could feel him smirking behind the mask. “Oh no, you don’t,” he mocked, the words a promise of delicious torment to come.

I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the next unpredictable move.

Leaning close, he grabbed my throat, his fingers tightening just enough to make my breath catch.

He lifted my face to his, and I saw, with a jolt to the gut, that his knife was back, held against my cheek, the sharp edge kissing my skin.

“Are you my wife?” he whispered, his voice dangerously low. He stepped closer, pressing himself between my legs, and for a moment, I forgot to breathe. “Answer me, or I will enjoy punishing you,” he purred, the word a seductive promise of pain.

I refused to speak, my lips clamped shut. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing me admit it. Not yet, at least.

He sighed, a theatrical show of disappointment. “Hard way it is. You were warned,” he said, straightening back.

I watched with a rising sense of confusion as he bent down, rummaging through a bag by the altar which was placed on the ground.

What was he doing? What else did he have planed?

I froze, a cold dread seizing my heart, when he held up a syringe. The needle glittered, sharp and menacing in the filtered light.

“What is that?” I managed to whisper, my voice barely audible.

“Oh, she speaks,” he mocked, his smile twisting into a cruel parody of amusement.

“This is a special sedative,” he continued, his eyes gleaming with a dark promise. “It will paralyze your body, yet all your senses will be heightened. You will be numb to movement, but you will feel everything. You will feel me touching you, making you come...” His eyes darkened as he spoke, his words painting a lurid picture in my mind. “You will see, you will hear, but your body will be mine to do with as I please.”

He paused, watching me, his expression unreadable. “Do you trust me on that?” he asked, his voice a smooth, deceptive whisper. “It’s perfectly safe, with the right dosage. If you say yes…” His gaze intensified. “…I will reward you, and you will be back with me in an hour. So…do you trust me? Your husband?” The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

My mind raced, trying to grasp the implications of his words. This had to be a joke, a terrible nightmare I would wake up from soon.

But his eyes, dark and intense, told me differently.

This was no joke.

He was serious, and I was trapped, utterly at his mercy.