Chapter 2 I Belong To You
The Silverbourne Grand Plaza’s most luxurious room stretched before me, gilded mirrors reflecting the flickering candlelight, silk drapes cascading from the ceiling like liquid silver, the bed a monstrous thing draped in black and crimson. But none of it mattered. Not the plush carpets beneath my bare feet, not the scent of roses and champagne thick in the air.
Only him.
The door clicked shut behind him. The world shrank to candlelight and the faint hum of magic still clinging to our vows.
Grayson stood before me, his broad shoulders blocking out the light, his presence swallowing the room whole. The tailored lines of his black suit clung to him like a second skin, every inch of him sculpted from shadow and sin. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, his dark hair tousled just enough to suggest he didn’t give a damn about perfection, only power. And those eyes. God, those eyes. Cold as winter frost, burning with something I didn’t dare name.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
I smiled, a little breathless. “A bit. You?”
He gave a quiet laugh, the sound of the boy I used to know. “Maybe.” His fingers brushed mine. “You’ve been through enough, Evie. Tonight should be easy.”
Something in the way he said easy made my pulse stutter.
“You should rest,” he said, his tone flat.
“I will. I just wanted to...” I smiled nervously. “Talk. Before we, before the mating.”
His jaw tightened. “There’s nothing to talk about, Evie.”
He stepped closer, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw. The tenderness felt wrong, too controlled. His gaze dropped to my throat, to the place where the mark he gave me was pulsing.
Then his hand tightened, just slightly, and when he looked up again, the warmth was gone; my stomach twisted into knots.
I clenched my fists in the layers of my wedding gown, the lace digging into my palms. The weight of the dress, the weight of this, of being his wife, his luna, pressed down on me until I could barely breathe. My pulse hammered in my throat, my skin too hot, too sensitive, like every nerve was waiting for the strike of his touch.
His gaze raked over me, slow and deliberate, as if he were memorizing every inch of me, every flaw, every secret. Then his lips curled, not in amusement, but in something far more dangerous.
“You’re mine now.”
His voice was a blade dragging over my skin, low and rough, the kind of sound that made my stomach clench. Before I could react, his hands shot out, fingers locking around my wrists like manacles. I gasped, the force of his grip sending a jolt through me, but I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. Not when his thumb pressed into the delicate skin of my inner wrist, not when his breath fanned over my face, hot and laced with whiskey.
“Say it,” he demanded, his mouth so close to my ear I could feel the shape of his words against my skin. His free hand slid up my arm, over my shoulder, his fingers tangling in the strands of my hair just hard enough to make my scalp prickle. “Say you belong to me.”
I swallowed, my throat dry. The taste of the wedding cake still lingered on my tongue, sickly sweet now, like poison. I had spent years loving him from afar, dreaming of a moment that would never come. And now here we were, bound by vows.
“I belong to you,” I whispered.
The words tasted like ash. My voice trembled, my body betraying me with a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. His grip tightened, his fingers bruising, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might laugh. But he didn’t. Instead, his lips brushed the shell of my ear, his breath a dark promise.
“Good girl.”
I tried to smile, but my wolf was restless, as if it could sense the danger; this wasn't just some nobody. This was my husband, my mate. We were bound by vows and magic from body to soul.
Then he moved.
One hand stayed locked around my wrists, pinning them above my head against the wall. The other slid down, rough and possessive, gripping my waist before yanking up the skirts of my gown. The fabric tore, just a little, just enough to make my breath hitch. Cool air hit my thighs, then his palm, calloused and unyielding, sliding up to my hip before his fingers dug in, spreading my legs apart.
“This is mine.”
His teeth grazed my neck, sharp and sudden, and I cried out as pain bloomed, hot and bright, wetness pooled between my legs. His bite was deliberate, punishing, his tongue swiping over the sting a second later, tasting me, tasting blood. My blood. My head spun, my body arching against the wall, trapped between the cold press of the silk behind me and the brutal heat of him in front of me.
Then his hand was between my thighs, his fingers shoving aside the flimsy lace of my underwear with a single, violent tug. I heard the fabric rip, felt the cool air against my bare, wet flesh, and shame burned through me. But before I could process it, his fingers were there, two of them, driving into me without warning. I bucked at the intrusion. It was painful despite the wetness.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a dark growl, his breath hot against my throat. “Already so wet for me.”
I whimpered, my body clenching around his invasion, the stretch burning even as something dark and twisted coiled low in my belly. His fingers curled inside me, rough and unrelenting, his thumb pressing against my clit in a way that made my knees buckle.
“No, please... It's hurt...” The protest died in my throat as he twisted his wrist, his fingers hitting some deep, forbidden place inside me. Pleasure lanced through me, sharp and unwanted, my hips jerking helplessly against his hand.
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes black with something feral. “You’re dripping,” he sneered, his fingers glistening with my arousal as he dragged them free. Before I could react, he grabbed my chin, forcing my mouth open, pressing his slick fingers against my tongue.
“Taste it. Taste what I own.”
My cheeks burned, humiliation and something far more dangerous warring inside me. But I obeyed. My tongue flicked over my own wetness, the flavor salty and obscene, my lashes fluttering as I forced myself to swallow. His grip on my chin tightened, his thumb pressing into my lower lip hard enough to bruise.
“Such a good little whore, hmm...” he murmured, his voice a dark caress. Then he was stepping back, his hands moving to his belt. The sound of the leather sliding free made my stomach clench. His trousers followed, pooling at his ankles, and then he was there, hard, thick, the head of his cock already glistening with pre-cum, the veins standing out against his flushed skin.
“On your knees.”