Page 106 of Ruthless Desire

Dante's hips surge forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. I cry out, my passage stinging and stretching around his thick girth as he sets a punishing rhythm.

"Gonna knock you up," he pants, each word punctuated by a jagged snap of his pelvis. "Put a baby in this belly, Natalie. Fuck you full to bursting with my spawn."

Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, even as my treacherous cunt clenches around him, my body responding to the filthy depravity pouring from his lips. God help me, some twisted part of me wants it, craves the perverse proof of his claiming.

"You'll be so ripe," Dante continues, his strokes growing frenzied. "Round and lush, tits swollen with milk, my child growing in your womb. Your body will know its purpose, its basest function - carrying the seed of the man who owns it."

I shatter with a broken wail, my mind shorting out under the onslaught of pleasure-pain and dawning horror. Dante follows me over the edge, roaring his completion as I feel him pulsing deep inside me, flooding me with what could very well be the beginning of his dark prophecy.

Boneless, I sag into the sweat-soaked sheets, barely registering when Dante slips free of my heat with a satisfied groan. But there's no respite to be found, not even in the hazy aftershocks of release.

Because his words cling to me like poisoned barbs, their implication seeping into my marrow. Twisting my insides until I don't know if the nausea rising in my throat is from revulsion or some nascent maternal instinct, programmed into my very DNA.

More than a trophy. More than a plaything, a pet to cosset and punish as he sees fit. No, Dante wants to make me a broodmare. An unwilling vessel, destined to propagate his cursed bloodline.

My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat for now. How long before his sinister machinations take root, before his child - our child - starts to quicken inside me?

Dante catches the movement, his fingers tangling with mine over my belly button. "Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You'll be magnificent like this, solnyshko. Glowing. Resplendent with our dark creation."

I turn my face into the pillow, a single sob wracking my frame. "I hate you," I choke out, the words muffled but no less vehement. "I'll never forgive you for this, you fucking monster."

"Shh." He strokes my hair, the gentleness of it somehow worse than any cruelty. "You say that now, moy voron. But you'll change your tune when you feel our little one growing inside you. When you realize the ultimate surrender, the purest submission, is giving your body over to its rawest purpose - creating life."

A shudder ripples through me, as much from the conviction in his tone as the terrible images it conjures. Is there nothing sacred he won't pervert? No line he won't cross in his quest to possess me completely?

"Sleep now," Dante coaxes, wrapping me in his inescapable embrace. "Let your body do what it was made for. Accept the honor I'm bestowing upon you, the precious gift of carrying my legacy within your womb."

I want to rage, to scream my defiance until my throat is raw and bleeding. But exhaustion drags at me, the weight of his depraved revelation smothering my struggles before they can begin.

As consciousness slips away, I'm left with one final, horrifying thought - that no matter how hard I fight, no matter how vehemently I reject his twisted vision, a monstrous part of me yearns for it. Yearns to be filled, stretched, branded inside and out as his.

I'm afraid that when I wake, that part will be all that's left of Natalie Quinn. Whoever she was before Dante Corleone burned her world to ash and built his kingdom on the ruins.

My skin burns where Dante touched me, his fingerprints seared into my flesh like brands. The sheets are damp with sweat and other things I don't want to name. I can still taste him on my tongue, bitter and intoxicating.

God, what's wrong with me?

I slip out of bed, my legs shaky. Every step is a reminder of what just happened, of how my body betrayed me again. The mirror catches my eye and I freeze, staring at the stranger looking back at me. Bruises bloom across my collarbone, my hips. Dante's marks of ownership.

"Fuck," I whisper, pressing my fingers against a particularly vivid bite on my shoulder. The pain grounds me, reminds me that I'm still here, still fighting.

I need air. Need to escape the suffocating scent of sex and Dante's cologne.

The chapel. The thought comes unbidden, a lifeline in this sea of chaos.

I throw on a flimsy dress, not bothering with underwear. What's the point? Dante will just rip it off again anyway.

The cool night air hits me as I slip outside, raising goosebumps on my bare arms. The chapel looms ahead, a silent sentinel in the darkness. Inside, the air is thick with incense and centuries of whispered prayers. I collapse into a pew, my knees hitting the worn wood with a dull thud.

"Please," I rasp, not sure who I'm even talking to anymore. "I can't... I can't do this. I need..."

What do I need? Freedom? My dad? Or maybe, deep down in the twisted part of me that Dante's cultivated, do I need him?

The door creaks open and I stiffen, knowing without turning who it is. Dante's presence fills the small space, suffocating in its intensity.

"Running again, solnyshko?" His voice is silk over steel, sending shivers down my spine. "When will you learn? There's no escape from me. Not ever."

I stand, facing him, chin raised in defiance even as my heart races. "This is a house of God, Dante. Even you should respect that."

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