Page 88 of His Eternal Claim

I provide everything. Jewels, clothes, a separate room upon her request, an empty dining table where I do nothing but watch her. I even allow her traitor of a Mother to live under my roof just to keep her sane. I will do anything for her. Anything to keep her here.

It’s exhausting. Having her, but not truly having her.

It is a special kind of fucking torture, standing in the palace I built for her while she drifts through the halls like a ghost, treating me like the monster who locked her away.

I am the monster who locked her away, but I’d burn the rest of the world to ashes if it meant she looked at me with an ounce of the warmth she gives her memories.

Fuck, she is beautiful. So fragile it makes my chest ache, yet she holds a power over me that sickens and captivates me.

I look at her lips, still wet where my thumb pressed into them, and my jaw tautens until it clicks. Every single drop of blood in her veins, every ragged breath she takes in her sleep, it all belongs to me. I bought her with violence, I paid for her in blood, and I’ll be damned if I let her slip away into the dark.

I trace the line of her jaw with the back of my hand, not quite touching her, terrified that the sheer brutality of my hunger will shatter her.

Wake up. Wake up and look at me. Hate me, fight me, scream at me… just don’t look past me anymore.

My gaze drops back down to the slipped strap of her gown, the pale curve of her breast teasing my sanity. It takes every ounce of my fading restraint not to sink my teeth into that soft skin, to leave marks that would remind her exactly who commands her body now. I want to ruin her for anyone else. I want to strip away every lingering thought of her past until I am the only thing she breathes, the only thing she fears, the only thing she craves.

She thinks her Mother is her protection; she has no fucking clue that I am barely holding back the tide. I am a patient man when it comes to business, but watching my wife starve herself of affection in my own house is driving me unhinged. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care if I have to break every boundary she set up.

I will make her love me. Even if it kills us both.

A slight movement from her stills me. Her eyes flutter open.

Startled by my presence, she jolts upward. The movement drags the loose gown lower, the fabric dipping dangerously low, nearly exposing her nipples.

“Hi, Dolcezza…” I whisper, giving her a slight smile I know she used to love.

Her eyes widen and before she can push me away, I lean over her, pinning her gently against the couch. I bury my face into the crook of her neck, my lips finding the warm skin of her pulse point. I kiss her there, inhaling the scent of her that I have starved myself of for weeks.

“What… what are you doing?” she gasps, her hands coming up to press against my chest, though her voice lacks any real strength.

I pull back just enough to look down at her, holding her panicked gaze. A slow, dangerous smile touches my lips.

“Kissing my wife,” I murmur, my voice husky.

She blinks, trying to clear the haze of sleep from her brain, her chest heaving against mine. “You… you shouldn’t be here. Don’t you have someone else for this?”

I pause, my brows knitting together in genuine confusion. “Someone else?”

“Out there,” she says, her voice bitter as she looks away from my gaze. “A mistress. Or several. Isn’t that why you’re never home?”

I let out a low chuckle. My thumb catches her chin and forces her face back toward me.

“Who the hell told you that?”

“Mama told me,” she whispers, her defensive wall slipping for a fraction of a second. “She said men who are powerful always have mistresses kept outside. That it’s just what your kind does.”

My grip on her chin softens, though I don’t look away.

“Your Mother,” I say softly, my lips brushing against hers as I speak, “knows absolutely nothing about me. I don’t want anyone else. I only want you. And if I’m not home, it’s because I am ensuring no one ever takes you away from me.”

Her breath hitches, her small hands still flattened against my chest, over the erratic, violent thud of my heart. She looks at me, searching my eyes for the lie. She wants to find it. She wants me to be the heartless bastard her Mother warned her about because it’s easier to hate a cliché than it is to navigate the terrifying reality of whatever this is between us.

“You’re lying,” she whispers, her voice trembling, though she doesn’t pull away from my touch. “You just say what you need to say to keep me compliant. To make me forget what you took.”

It angers me, but fuck, it breaks me too.

“I don’t lie to you, Dolcezza,” I murmur, my voice dropping an octave, thicker now with an emotion I hate acknowledging. I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers, forcing her to share my air. “Never to you. If you want me here, I am here. If you want me to stay, the world outside can burn to the fucking ground while I sit at your feet.”