Page 45 of Of Lies and Shadows

Something sharp lodges in my chest. I cross the room before I can stop myself, each step echoing like a warning.

She’s mine, I think as I cross the room to where she stands with Bruno.

The thought has been tearing through me from the moment I saw her standing at the altar, all soft curves and downcast eyes, dressed in white like she had any right to look innocent.

"Time to go be my whore…honey." I spit the last word like poison, gripping her arm tight enough to leave a mark.

Bruno turns to me. “Let go of her.”

“She’s my wife,” I say, low and cold. “You want to fightme on my wedding night, Bruno?”

He doesn’t move, but his jaw clenches. She places a hand on his chest, shaking her head once.

“It’s fine,” she says quietly. “He’s right. I’m his now.”

I hate her for saying it. Hate her more for meaning it.

I drag her upstairs, the lie of white lace rustling around her legs.

She doesn’t fight. She doesn’t speak.

She just follows, quiet and compliant, her bare shoulders trembling slightly under the weight of the gown.

Like she knows what’s coming. Good. She should.

I pull her into her bedroom and kick the door shut, the sound final and absolute. No escape. No illusions.

"Time to be my whore," I growl, spinning her toward the bed.

Her dress bunches around her thighs as I shove her down, no ceremony, no tenderness.

She lied to me. She made me feel something.

And I don't fucking feel! Not for spies. Not for liars. Not for a woman who saidI doto me while her heart belongs to someone else.

I rip the lace aside and tear her panties down her legs.

She gasps when I grip her hips, hard enough to bruise, but still no words, no resistance.

Good. She deserves worse.

I push inside her in one brutal thrust, and the moment I do, the breath leaves my lungs.

Tight. Too tight. And the way her body clenches?—

Fuck.She’s a virgin.

I freeze, my hands tightening painfully on her hips.

There’s blood. I feel it. The resistance wasn’t just her body, it was all of her. Untouched. Unclaimed.

And now ruined by me.

Her head is turned to the side, cheek pressed flat to the cream comforter.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t even flinch.

I try. God, I try to slow down. To loosen my grip, to ease the thrusts.

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