FORCED TO BE HIS WIFE

chapter 6

Alexander’s POV

The car purred beneath him as they left the house. But his mind wasn’t on the road.

It was on her.

Raichal.

The taste of her name rolled on his tongue like sin.

That fiery resistance. Those tear-glazed eyes. The way her breath hitched when he brushed too close. Her thighs barely hidden beneath those damned shorts, the swell of her hips when she turned away from him.The defiance on her lips.

The softness of her bare thighs under that damned pair of shorts.

It was torture. Her legs crossed in front of him, that oversized tee barely brushing her curves—he could still feel the ghost of her body against his, the scent of sweat, tears, and something far more dangerous: desire.

God.

He loosened his collar, the air suddenly too tight inside the car. His pants uncomfortably so.A hot pulse beat low in his body, hard and unrelenting.

Why did she have to look like that? All softness and flame wrapped in rebellion.

His fingers gripped the leather seat.

Then… her phone buzzed again in his pocket.

Johnathan.(appeared a picture of both of them hugging each other)

That pathetic name flickered on the screen like a match tossed on gasoline.

Heat flooded through him. Rage. Lust. Possession. A wild, primal need.

She let that boy touch her? Whisper to her?

The idea made him burn.

His blood roared.

“You think he can love you like I will?” he whispered to no one.

He leaned forward. “Turn back,” he growled to his driver. “Now.”

The driver hesitated, confused.

“I said back to her house.”

His voice left no room for questions.

IN RAICHELS HOME

Raichal sat on the edge of her bed, the sting on her cheek still blooming like fire beneath her skin. Her mother’s accusations circled like vultures in the air.

“She chose some boy over everything we’ve done for her.”

“She’s a disgrace.”

“She wore those clothes on purpose. Shorts like that? She was begging for attention.”

Raichal trembled. Her legs drawn up, arms wrapped around herself. The oversized tee barely covered her, the shorts clinging to her thighs—now feeling like a punishment.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Then—a sound.

The front door slammed. Heavy steps thundered through the house.

Her parents fell silent.

And then, the door to her room opened.

The room pulsed with tension as Alexander stepped inside, uninvited. The soft rustle of his suit, the low thud of his shoes against her wooden floor—it all felt too loud in the quiet after chaos.

He stepped in like he belonged there—like this room, this pain, this girl, were all his to command.

His eyes scanned her like a weapon.

Tears stained her cheeks. Her hair was a mess. Her thighs were bare.

His jaw clenched.

“I said I’d be back,” he said darkly.

Her father opened his mouth, but Alexander raised a single hand.

“You’ve said enough.”

A moment of eerie silence. Then—

Her parents… left.

Without a word.

Without a fight.

Just shameful glances.

the moment she saw the phone in his hand.

“Give it back.”

He didn’t speak. Just closed the door behind him and locked it with a soft click.

Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

Panic flared in her chest.

He leaned back against the door, twirling her phone between his fingers lazily.

“You’re upset,” he said. “Understandably. But calling your little boyfriend won’t save you.”

“Don’t talk about him,” she snapped, stepping forward. “Just give me the damn phone.”

“Give me my phone,” she whispered.

He stepped forward.

“Take it,” he murmured.

He pulled it from his coat pocket and held it out—just out of reach.

She stepped forward, wary. Her fingers brushed his hand—

He c****d his head, watching her. “What will you tell him? That you’re barefoot, in shorts barely covering your thighs, trembling… because I’ve taken everything?”

Her cheeks burned. She crossed her arms, her oversized T-shirt brushing against the tops of her thighs, suddenly too aware of how exposed she was under his gaze.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He stepped forward—slow, deliberate.

He snatched her wrist and yanked her against him.

“Did he kiss you?” Alexander’s voice was ice and fire all at once. “Touch you? Did he see this?” His fingers brushed her thigh where her shorts ended, grazing the soft skin.

She gasped, pushing at his chest. “Let me go!”

“No,” he growled. “You let him touch you but you run from me?”

“You walked down those stairs, curves spilling from that tiny kurti, thighs bare and tempting. What did you expect? That I wouldn’t feel something?”

She backed up as he advanced, but the bed caught her behind the knees.

“I didn’t wear it for you.”

“You didn’t need to.”

He was right in front of her now, towering over her. He reached out, brushing a thumb down the side of her cheek where the slap still left its sting.

I love him!”

Alexander laughed—low, bitter.

“You think this is love?” he whispered against her ear, fingers dragging along her waist. “Does he make your body burn like this?”

“I hate you!”

“But your body doesn’t.”

He pushed her gently against the wall, lips a breath from hers.

“You deserve better than being struck,” he murmured. “But you also need to learn what obedience looks like.”

She flinched at his touch. “You don’t own me.”

“Don’t I?” he whispered.

Suddenly, his hand slid to her waist, fingers curling into the soft fabric of her shirt, tugging her forward so her body pressed lightly against his.

“You walk around in those little clothes, begging to be noticed. And now you’ve got my full attention.”

Her breath was ragged.

“I didn’t wear this for you,” she spat.

“You wore it, and now it’s mine,” he said darkly. “You’re mine.”

Her hands trembled against his chest.

“Please…” she begged, voice breaking. “Don’t do this.”

His eyes softened—but just a touch.

“I warned you,” he said. “You chose him. You ran. And now I’m the only one who came back.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over her jaw—not a kiss, just a claim.

She whimpered. “Don’t…”

“You’re mine. Not because you said yes. But because I decided.”

Her breath caught. Her hands went to his chest to push him away, but he grabbed her wrists, holding them at her sides with terrifying gentleness.

“You don’t get to choose anymore, Raichal. That right was traded the moment your father asked me to save your family.”

“I’d rather suffer.”

His grip tightened slightly, not hurting—just reminding.

She gasped, caught between resistance and a traitorous thrum in her blood.

Her knees buckled slightly, and he caught her, holding her close. Too close.

“No more shorts,” he murmured. “No more him. Just you… and me. Monday. You’ll be mine.”

“And if I say no?”

“And your brother? Your mother’s heart meds? Your father's loans? Will they suffer too—for your pride?”

She swallowed hard, hating the lump in her throat.

He leaned in, nose brushing against her jawline, inhaling the scent of her skin like it was a drug.

“I will not force you to love me,” he whispered, lips ghosting across her ear, “but I will make you feel me… in every breath, every heartbeat, every night you lie awake wishing it was someone else’s hands.”

She trembled, every nerve on fire.

His fingers lifted her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His gaze bore into hers—possessive, hungry, unrelenting.

“I’ll give you the phone,” he said, voice low and satin-soft. “But you’ll remember one thing.”

“What?” she breathed.

He leaned down, lips brushing hers—but not quite kissing.

“That when he touches you… you’ll still be thinking of me.”

Then, slowly, he pressed the phone into her palm. But he didn’t let go immediately.

Their fingers touched.

Her breath hitched.

And his smirk deepened.

“Ten minutes,” he said, turning to leave. “Then come downstairs. Your mother will be waiting with the bridal bangles.”

He paused at the door, glanced back once, and added with a smile that sent shivers down her spine:

“Wear something tighter.”

.

.

.

.

Raichal didn’t come down.

The clock ticked. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty.

Downstairs, the silence was heavy. Her mother kept glancing at the staircase, wringing her hands, bridal bangles clinking like broken promises.

Alexander’s jaw tightened. He was seated like a king on a throne of lies — back straight, eyes fixed on the staircase, fury simmering beneath his calm exterior.

“She’s… probably nervous,” her mother tried to say, weakly.

But he stood up, slow and dangerous.

“No,” he said. “She’s testing me.”

Each step he took echoed like thunder against the marble floor. The air shifted. Cold. Electric.

Raichal was seated on the edge of her bed, still in her shorts and loose tee, legs tucked under her, heart racing. She heard the door open before she could move. He was already inside, shutting it behind him with a heavy click.

His eyes dragged over her in one slow, devastating sweep. Her skin burned where he looked—like he’d touched her without laying a finger.

“You didn’t come,” he said, voice low.

“I didn’t agree,” she shot back, chin high.

"You had one job," he said, voice smooth as silk, sharp as a knife. "Come downstairs, look pretty, smile."

For a second, the silence felt suffocating.

Then, he stepped forward. “What are you trying to prove?”

“That I have a choice,” she hissed, backing away. “That you don’t own me.”

“You think this is a game?” His voice rose—just slightly—but enough to make the air crackle.

“I’m not your toy. I’m not your prize,” she snapped. “You think you can break me by threatening my parents? You think I’ll bend?”

“You will,” he said coldly. “Because I’m the only one who hasn’t let go of you.”

“You wore that for me?” he asked, taking a slow step forward. “Or were you hoping to tempt your little boyfriend over the phone again?”

“Stay away,” she hissed, standing. “I’m not doing this. Not now. Not ever.”

He grinned. Not nice. Not kind. Predatory.

He reached for her wrist—fast. But this time, Raichal jerked away, pushing him hard in the chest.

“I said no!”

“Don’t touch me,” she warned.

“I haven’t,” he replied. “But I will.”

He paused.

And then… laughed.

Not out of humor. But something darker. Deeper.

“You think wearing that”—his eyes dragged over her bare legs—“won’t make men want to tear you apart?”

“You don’t get to control me,” she spat. “Not what I wear, not who I love.”

Alexander stepped close, and she felt the heat radiating off him.

“Then don’t wear this,” he said, voice like gravel. “Unless it’s just for me.”

Raichal slapped him.

Hard.

It echoed louder than thunder.

For a moment—just one—everything froze.

His face turned slowly back toward her, cheek red, eyes black with something untamed. And then…

A breath.

Long. Deep.

He didn’t retaliate.

He smiled.

“You’re fire,” he whispered. “And I’ll burn with you.”

She was trembling now—not from fear. From fury. From the storm inside her chest.

“You’re insane,” she whispered, voice cracking.

“I’ve been worse,” he murmured, stepping back.

Then, with the quietest voice she’d ever heard him use, he said:

“Change. Or I’ll tear that shirt off myself.”

And he left, door slamming behind him.