Page 66 of Lord of the Dark

I trembled—not from fear, not even from pain—but because my body no longer knew what to do with everything it felt. The blade still rested against my skin, ready for more. My breath was uneven, my vision blurred, my core a churning sea of contradiction and want.

Alessandro leaned in slowly, until his forehead nearly touched mine. His gaze was calm, but his eyes raged with a storm, black and fathomless as an abyss. "Four cuts. You carry something of me now—on your skin, whether you want it or not."

I didn’t dare look down.

Then he let the tip drag lower. With one precise slice, he severed the fabric of my panties, leaving them useless and torn away between us. A gasping sound escaped me.

His fingers dug into my flesh without mercy, as if he meant to rip out every last shred of resistance. With a single, forceful yank, he hauled me up, threw me onto my stomach, sideways across the cramped backseat—bound, scraped raw, face pressed into leather that smelled of heat and him. My wrists lay against my back, bound in plastic, silently rebelling against what my body had already accepted. I was his—whether I wanted it ornot.

But I did. And how.

The zip tie burned deeper into my skin with even the slightest movement. Every fiber of my body was taut, exposed, stretched between pain and longing. I was trapped—and yet freer than I’d ever been. Free of thought, of limits, of everything except what he was doing to me.

He freed himself from his pants, dragged me backward by my bound arms against him as if I were a possession he was reclaiming. And then he thrust into me—hard, deep, unrelenting. No hesitation, no warning, just the brutal invasion of his lust into my heat, and I couldn’t scream, could only gasp as my body convulsed against the loss of control.

His grip turned iron, his movements rhythmic and merciless. With every stroke, he made me feel how thoroughly I belonged to him, how deep his hunger for me ran.

I tried to turn my head away, to escape, to escape him—but his hand clamped around my neck, forcing me brutally back into the present. His teeth met my skin, not gently, but demanding, leaving behind a trail of pressure, pain, and his goddamn will. He wasn’t gentle. He was a storm, sweeping everything away. A burning grew inside me, wider, deeper, unbearable—not just in my body but beneath my skin, where he had already claimed me. He filled me, in every way, demanded, possessed, forced me into a craving that threatened to tear me apart.

His breath hit my skin, hot and uneven, as his body strained over mine. The tightness of the car, the heat, the greed—it all became a sealed space with no escape. And I didn’t want to escape. I only wanted to sink deeper into this madness, deeper into his violence, deeper into the ecstasy that hurt so damn much.

With a sudden motion, he yanked my hair, tore my head back, forced me to look at him.

"Look at me," he commanded, and I obeyed because I couldn’t do otherwise.

His gaze devoured me. Black with hunger, with control, with a greed that consumed me. And I let it. I was no longer Fiona. I was only body, only reaction. My gasping breath grazed his skin, my nails clawed desperately into the fabric of his shirt, searching for anchor in a moment that offered none. His hands were everywhere—demanding, possessive, absolute. His thrusts grew deeper, as if he meant to split me open, as if he had to shatter me to finally pull me into himself.

"You. Are. Mine," he rasped against my ear, and the words seared like fire down my spine. "Say it."

I bit my lip, wanted to keep control, wanted to clutch the last shreds of my pride crumbling somewhere between pleasure and pain. But his grip on my neck tightened, dragged me closer, forced me to feel his breath, his heat, his violence.

"Say you belong to me."

"No," I gasped. It was more a whisper, a final rebellion. But it was real. My body might have been his long ago, but my pride, my soul—he would never own those.

I hoped.

His eyes narrowed, the muscles in his jaw tensed, then his tone grew quieter—more dangerous.

"Fiona." Just my name. Yet in that single word lay everything: possession, threat, promise.

Then he paused—only for a fraction of a second—before his hand came down full-force on my left buttock. The sound reverberated through me, a sharp crack followed by searing pain that forced a loud gasp from my lips.

"I... won't... say it." My voice was strained, defiant, but it trembled.

He gave me that dangerous, dark smile only he could muster. "Oh yes. You will."

And he followed through—three more strikes, swift and merciless. My entire body burned, clenched. I wasn’t sure what shook me more—the pain, my pride, or the deep, hot wave of pleasure rolling through my core.

"Should I stop?" he whispered.

As for the pain on my backside—absolutely yes—but it only stoked the fire inside me higher, so I answered with a soft "No..."

He leaned in, his lips meeting my shoulder, his teeth sinking into my skin as he intensified his rhythm, driving me relentlessly into a sea of heat and desire. A loud moan escaped me—from pain. And pleasure. The skin on my shoulder ached under his teeth, yet his cock sent waves of pure ecstasy through my nerves. My nails scraped over the hard plane of his stomach pressed tightly against me, and I felt every last shred of resistance within me melting under his control.

"Say it, Fiona." His voice was no longer a whisper, no coaxing—just a command, cold and unyielding, sharp as steel. With every thrust, he pushed deeper into me, demanded, claimed, took not just my body but everything I believed myself to be.

"Say it, or I won’t stop."

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