NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

9

Livia didn't know when it ended. The world was a spinning vortex of pain, humiliation, and the brutal reality of Julian's unbridled rage. Her screams had long since devolved into choked sobs, her body trembling uncontrollably, utterly spent.

The cold, hard surface of the desk had imprinted itself onto her skin, a searing reminder of the violation. A thick fog enveloped her mind, her senses dulled by the sheer intensity of the ordeal. She felt something soft and warm, then heavy, draped over her naked, aching body. A faint scent of pipe tobacco and something distinctly masculine enveloped her. Julian's coat.

Then, she was lifted. The jarring motion sent a fresh wave of pain through her, and a whimper escaped her lips. She registered the powerful arms, the solid chest against which her head lolled. She was being carried. Where, she neither knew nor cared. Her consciousness flickered, dipping in and out like a faulty lamp.

Julian was far from satiated. The raw, desperate act on his study desk had been an explosion of his shattered control, a brutal assertion of dominance.

But it had not fully quelled the burning need to claim her, to truly possess the defiant woman who had dared to mock him. He didn't want to continue in his study, the scene of such unbridled, public (though only to his butler and brother) fury. His bedchamber. That was where she truly belonged now.

He covered her with his coat, the heavy wool a stark contrast to her raw, violated skin. Lifting her, he carried her through the silent corridors, her limp form a testament to his power. He paid no mind to the faint light peeking through the windows, signifying the early hours of dawn.

His singular focus was on completing what he had started.

Upon reaching his bedchamber, he kicked the door shut with his foot, the muffled thud echoing in the large room. He didn't bother with the elegant gas lamps, the dim light of the pre-dawn filtering through the heavy curtains offering just enough illumination.

He carried her directly to his massive, four-poster bed and gently, but decisively, laid her down amidst the silken sheets.

He then undressed fully, his movements unhurried, deliberate. He shed his discarded coat, his crumpled shirt, and his trousers, letting them fall to the floor in a discarded heap. He didn't care that she was in and out of consciousness, that her eyes were half-lidded with pain and exhaustion. His gaze, dark and intense, raked over her prone form, the delicate lines of her body now marred by the angry red welts his hands had left on her skin.

He climbed onto the bed, his weight settling heavily beside her. He reached for her, his touch now less violent than before, but no less possessive. He pulled her closer, her body still unresponsive, yielding. Without preamble, he entered her again. This time, the act was not fueled by the initial explosion of rage, but by a colder, more deliberate determination to stake his claim.

His lips found her neck, then her shoulder. He began to bite. Not playfully, not passionately, but with a primal, possessive force. Deep, bruising marks began to bloom on her delicate skin. He moved from her neck to her shoulder, then down her arm, her collarbone.

Each mark was a brand, a symbol of ownership. He left deep bite marks on every inch of her skin, a dark testament to his claim. He wanted anyone who saw her after today to know. To know, without a shadow of a doubt, who she belonged to. These were not the fleeting marks of passion, but the indelible signs of possession.

Livia whimpered, the faint sensation of teeth against her skin registering somewhere in the fog of her pain. But she was too far gone to fight, too spent to resist. She was an empty vessel, her screams having been torn from her, leaving only hollow echoes.

He didn't stop until he was utterly spent, his body trembling, his muscles aching from the exertion. He had taken her repeatedly, his movements rhythmic and relentless, until the last vestiges of his rage and frustrated desire had burned themselves out.

Finally, with a profound sigh that was almost a groan, he slumped next to her on the bed, his heavy arm falling across her stomach. Exhaustion claimed him swiftly.

Within moments, the formidable Duke Julian Lancelot Blackmoor, the master of control, was lost to a deep sleep, his breathing even and heavy beside the woman he had so brutally claimed.

Livia lay awake, or perhaps, half-awake, in the aftermath. The pain was a dull throb now, overlaid by the searing memory of his teeth, the cold pressure of his body, the absolute violation. The scent of him, raw and male, filled her nostrils. She shifted infinitesimally, trying to escape the weight of his arm, the oppressive presence of his sleeping form.

But there was nowhere to go. She was trapped, bound, and branded. The bite marks on her skin were a chilling prophecy. She belonged to him now, in a way she had never conceived possible.