Chapter 37: THIRTY SEVEN

Chapter 37

She knew he would come.

He had promised as much that morning in that lethally quiet voice of his—"When I return tonight, there will be no closed doors between us." A command, not a request. A reminder of the arrangement she had accepted the moment she let him pay for the roof over her head, the silk against her skin.

Mistress. The word curled through her like smoke, bitter and suffocating.

Isabelle lay motionless in the vast bed, Egyptian cotton cool beneath her bare skin. She had turned off every light, pulled the curtains tight, as if darkness could shield her. But the growl of his Ferrari cutting through the silent night shattered that illusion.

1:03 AM.

Fresh, perhaps, from his fiancée’s bed.

The thought was a razor between her ribs. She had seen the proof, had forced herself to study every damn photo on Daphne Karistou’s Instagram until her vision blurred. Lunch at his favorite restaurant, the one he’d once taken her to. A stroll along the beach, his hand clasped around Daphne’s as if she were something precious. And his eyes, God, his eyes, fixed on her with a focus Isabelle hadn’t seen in years.

She had stared until her chest ached. Until she remembered that pain was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

The front door opened downstairs.

No greeting. No hesitation. Just the steady, inevitable tread of his footsteps on the stairs—closer, closer—until the bedroom door swung open.

Isabelle didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

The scent of him hit her first—whiskey and expensive cologne and something darker.

Isabelle kept her eyes closed, her breathing deliberately slow, but she felt him. The weight of his stare burned through her fragile pretense of sleep, searing her skin even in the darkness. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched her with that unbearable intensity, as if he could peel back her defenses with sheer will alone.

Then, a sigh. Heavy. Almost frustrated. The bathroom door clicked shut. Water ran. Ten agonizing minutes later, the mattress dipped beside her, and the heat of his body pressed against her back, hard and unyielding.

She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch.

His hands didn’t ask permission.

One large palm slid over her hip, possessive and rough, dragging her flush against him. She could feel him already, hard, insistent, pressing against the curve of her ass through the thin silk of her nightgown. His other hand fisted in the delicate fabric at her shoulder, yanking it down in one sharp motion, baring her skin to the cool air—to his mouth.

His teeth scraped the nape of her neck. “You look like you’re waiting for an execution,” he murmured, voice thick with dark amusement.

His chuckle was a low, dangerous rumble against her spine. "But, agápi mou. Tonight, you’re getting a reminder.”

Then his hand was between her thighs.

No warning. No teasing. Just there, fingers pushing roughly past the lace of her panties, plunging deep into her heat with a single, ruthless stroke.

She gasped, back arching, her body torn between shock and the brutal pleasure of his invasion.

“NOO, Nic!”

His grip tightened on her hip, holding her still as his fingers worked her with merciless precision, curling just so inside her, dragging a broken moan from her lips.

“See, there, You’re already getting wet,” he growled, lips grazing her ear. “Were you thinking about me? About how I’d fuck you the moment I walked in?”

Her body jolted at the sudden invasion, electric shockwaves of sensation ripping through her before her mind could catch up. For one dizzying second, she was nothing but raw nerve endings—then instinct kicked in.

No. Her hands flew to his chest, shoving hard. "Nic, stop—"

It was useless.

"You think I care what you want tonight?" His thumb found her clit, pressing down just enough to hurt, just enough to make her hips jerk.

His thumb once again brushed against her heat, that small button that wasso sensitive that she wanted to twist her legs cross to stop him. “Tonight. You will take me .Take me inside of you ,and then you will come on my cock. And by the time I’m done with you, you’ll be carrying my child again.”

Her breath hitched. “You can’t just—”

“I can.” His voice dropped, a velvet threat. “And I will.” His hands slid down her body, gripping her hips, dragging her flush against him. “You don’t get to pull away from me,” he growled against her mouth. “Not anymore.” “Nic—”

“No.” His hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back. His eyes were black with fury—and something else. Something raw and possessive. She could feel him—hard, relentless—pressed against her stomach. He wishere\[ed the words deliberately, cruelly into her ears as his finger, relentless and unstoppable, continued to rub against her heat, making her want to arch her back, making her want to slide her pelvis a little up and a little left before sliding down, letting him enter her. She was already losing her mind.

“You’re sick,” he murmured, his lips tracing her throat. “A sickness I’ll cure. A therapist, doctors—whatever it takes to scrub every other man from your skin. But make no mistake, Isabelle.” His teeth grazed her collarbone. “No one else will ever have you again.”

She shuddered, her body caught between fight and surrender. And yet something broke inside of her at that moment, listening to harp on and on about what was wrong with her, what a slut she was. "Have you ever thought that you only find a whore when you look at me, because that is what you want to see?" Her voice shook as his fingers finally pushed inside of her.

Out of the two fingers that were inside of her, he suddenly curled one, forcing her to mewl like a kitten. "I see exactly who you are. At first, I thought of curbing that part of you to try and stop you. But no more, now I will let you be one. A whore, but only my whore. Mine."

Nic didn’t give her a choice. He took her surrender with a victorious smile, as she sobbed, not due to pleasure but because she knew she was being stupid by letting him get away with this.

His eyes burned over her—not with desire, but with intent. He was looking at her like he had a full plan ready for her, to destroy her, probably. She closed her eyes, turning her head away, but even that was forbidden. “Look at me,” he hissed, and when she refused, he increased his speed, his fingers moving in and out of her like a piston, making her moan with shock as her eyes flew open. "Much better," he sighed as her eye made contact with him. She shuddered, her body betraying her, heat pooling low in her belly.

He felt it. Of course he did.

A rough laugh escaped him as his fingers found the damp proof of her traitorous desire on his fingers. “You can lie to yourself,” he said, pressing a searing kiss to her collarbone. “But not to me.”he murmured against her skin. “And I’ll find someone to fix you. To make sure you never crave another man’s touch again. To fix whatever your mother had twisted inside of you as a child.” His voice was hoarse now, as he let his own hardness rub against her heat. but didn't enter “But until then.....”

And then, in one shocking turn.

He pushed inside her in one fierce thrust.

She cried out, her nails raking down his back.

He didn’t slow. Didn’t soften.

“Until then,” he gritted out, his hips driving into hers with relentless precision, “I’ll fuck the memory of anyone else out of you.”