Page 83 of Torn By Fate

I positioned myself at her slick entrance, feeling the heat of her, finding my wife completely soaked for me despite her spoken hatred.

The dark necessity to claim what was mine was sickeningly overwhelming.

I drove inside her in one deep, punishing stroke. Mercilessly.

A sharp cry tore from her throat, a mixture of pain and exquisite pleasure, her nails digging deeply into my shoulders as the wall behind her creaked under our weight.

I set a punishing, brutal rhythm, driving into her wet heat again and again, slamming her body against the wall. Her legs tightened around me, her inner walls clamping around my dick with every ruthless thrust.

The hotel room echoed with the primal rhythm of our collision, the slapping of skin, her broken whimpers, my heavy breathing, and the obscene, wet sound of our bodies joining together.

“Open your eyes,” I commanded, my voice gravelly. “Look at me when you come.”

Her hazel eyes snapped open, dark and glazed with passion.

Her orgasm seized her violently, her body tightening like a vise around me.

I felt every pulse of her pleasure on my cock. The intense contractions shattered my final thread of control; I buried myself deep inside her, my release pouring into her as a dark groan tore from my chest. “Serafina.”

For several heartbeats, we stayed like that—pressed together, breathing hard, the aftershocks still rippling through us both.

Then the reality of what we’d done crashed back upon us.

Serafina’s gaze cleared, the hazy pleasure hardening instantly into frigid disdain. She planted both hands against my chest and shoved with all her strength.

“Get off me,” she demanded now when she had asked me to take her just a moment ago.

I let her legs slide down until her feet met the floor. The second she found her footing, she struck out again, pushing me backward with enough force to make me stumble.

Her hand came up, and I saw the slap coming before it did. I caught her wrist an inch from my face, her palm still open, fingers trembling with pure rage.

But her other hand moved faster. Her fingers caught the collar of my shirt and yanked—hard, with feral strength.

The fabric tore with a loud rip, buttons scattering across the floor.

And there it was… exposed.

She saw it immediately, her eyes snapping to my neck.

The silver chain resting against my collarbone. Her eyes widened in sheer disbelief, her lips parting in shock. The furious fire drained from her face, replaced by a stunned, fragile confusion.

Her eyes remained locked on it. A metal bullet hung from the silver chain—the very same bullet she had buried inside my chest.

“You kept it,” she whispered softly. It wasn’t a question.

I remained silent. There was nothing to say. The evidence hung between us, cold and metallic and undeniable.

Her trembling fingers reached out, hovering before brushing against the cold metal, tentatively, as if touching something sacred. “Why?” she asked, her question barely audible.

I captured her hand, pressing her open palm flat over the raised scar beneath the chain. “Because it is the only piece of you that belonged to me after you fled.”

“I tried to kill you,” she said, breathing shakily. “And you wear the instrument of your death like a trophy.”

“It is my most prized possession,” I drawled.

Her defense crumbled entirely under the confession. “I don’t understand you.”

“Why did you truly pull that trigger, Serafina?” I demanded, closing the remaining distance between us. “What drove you to such hatred? I know the hate you carry isn’t because I tricked you into this marriage, so don’t lie to me. No more deceptions, Serafina. I’m done. I need the truth.”