The Savage Bride

Desire and Fire

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was raw, hungry, and demanding, his lips moving against mine with a desperation that stole the breath from my lungs.

I tried to pull away, but his hands cradled my face, holding me in place, his fingers pressing into the delicate skin of my cheeks. I could feel the roughness of his touch as if he were trying to claim me, to make me his in the most primal way possible.

His lips didn’t let me go, even when I willed my body to break free. I could feel my pulse thundering in my temples, my body betraying me despite the disgust pooling in my stomach. Every breath I took was a reminder of the suffocating reality I couldn’t escape.

Why can’t I fight this? I thought, desperate for control, for something. Why is my body reacting to him?

The feeling of his hands on me—his fingers digging into my skin—was a constant reminder that I was trapped. But I could feel the betrayal in every shiver, in the way my skin prickled even as my mind screamed for me to stop him. Why won’t my body listen to me?

“You can hate me,” he murmured against my lips, his voice dark and throaty, each word wrapping around me like a shackle.

“You can fight me. But you’ll always be mine, Azalea.”

The words sent a shockwave through me, a violent mix of anger and sorrow crashing in my chest. He spoke as though it were a given, like he had already won, like there was no escape from him. But I wanted to escape.

I wanted to scream. My body trembled, but I stayed silent, caught between fear and fury, unsure of how to act in the face of my own helplessness. This can’t be real. I can’t let him win.

His hands slid down to my shoulders, moving with that same eerie calm, then lower, his fingers finding the zipper of my dress. My heart raced, a fluttering panic taking root deep within me as I felt the fabric loosen, sliding down my arms like a serpent, whispering promises of doom.

The cool air against my exposed skin only intensified the heat in the room. I could feel every inch of my body in ways I never wanted to—vulnerable, exposed, helpless. My breath quickened, coming in shallow bursts.

No, stop. I won’t let him do this. I can’t.

I tried to stay still, to hold on to any semblance of control, but my breath came in shallow gasps, my voice a mere whisper of panic. The air around me felt thicker, heavier, as though it were pressing down, trying to suffocate me.

“Stop,” I gasped, my voice trembling, my throat raw with emotion. My words hung between us, fragile and weak, swallowed by the distance that still felt so impossibly wide between us.

But he shook his head slowly, deliberately, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my insides twist.

His gaze was like fire, and I could see the same possessive hunger burning in the depths. It was consuming, and for a moment, I thought I could feel the heat of it licking at my skin, setting my very soul ablaze.

“Never,” he said softly, the word dripping with certainty.

“You belong to me now. Let me show you how much.”

The fabric of my dress slipped from my shoulders, pooling at my waist. The weight of it was like the final seal in an agreement I hadn’t signed. His hands were warm as they trailed over my bare skin, his touch gentle but firm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

His fingers brushed across my arms, sending a shiver down my spine, making me want to recoil even as his hands stroked my skin like he had every right to. And maybe he did—he had taken everything from me.

My family. My life. My freedom.

I hate this. I hate him. Why is this happening?

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this moment?” he whispered, his lips brushing against the curve of my neck. His voice was so low, so intimate, like he was confessing some hidden, twisted truth.

“To hold you. To feel you.”

His words seemed to wrap themselves around my body, drawing me closer to him even though my mind screamed to pull away.

The heat of his breath on my skin made my pulse race, my heart hammering against my ribs, thudding in my chest like it might explode from the pressure.

Don’t give in. Don’t let him win.

I shivered under his touch, my body betraying me even as my mind screamed for me to resist.

The soft brush of his lips against my neck sent a wave of nausea through me, yet a part of me reacted—unnervingly, painfully—against the assault.

His hands found the clasp of my bra, and I flinched involuntarily as he unhooked it, the straps sliding down my arms with ease.

I can’t let this happen. I can’t let him take this too. No more.

“Rafael, please,” I pleaded, my voice thick with tears as they streamed freely down my face.

My throat tightened with the unbearable mixture of fear and helplessness.

“Don’t do this.”

But he didn’t stop. His hands cupped my bare shoulders, his thumbs brushing softly over my skin. His touch was careful, almost worshipful, as if I were something precious to him. The contrast between the way he touched me and the vile words he spoke twisted in my chest, a sharp agony that made me want to collapse.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His lips were barely grazing the skin of my neck, but his words reverberated through me like an insidious poison.

“Every inch of you. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving how much you mean to me.”

His words made my stomach churn, their sweetness sickening.

How can he say this? How could he claim to love me while holding me prisoner in a cage of his making? His twisted form of affection was suffocating, and yet I was powerless to escape it.

The thought of being chained to him forever made my blood run cold.

As his lips trailed down my neck, I couldn’t stop my mind from drifting back to that night in Los Angeles—the dinner at Carlos De Luca’s house.

The memory was like a shadow that refused to leave, lingering in every corner of my thoughts, never letting me forget the cruel bargain that had started all of this.

The library had been quiet, the air heavy with the scent of old books and leather. I’d lost myself in a novel, trying to distract myself from the tension that had hung over dinner like a storm cloud.

But I hadn’t been able to ignore the voices—Dad’s, low and firm, and Carlos’s, cold and calculating.

“Marry Azalea to my son,” Carlos had said, his voice dripping with finality, each word heavy with a threat that left no room for refusal. “That ends the feud.”

Dad’s response had been swift, cutting, his voice tinged with the strength of a father’s love.

“That’s not an option.”

The memory burned in my mind as Rafael’s lips moved lower, brushing the curve of my collarbone, pulling me back into the nightmare that had become my life.

The sensation of his mouth on my skin made my body recoil even as I felt the weight of his dominance pressing on me.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he whispered, his hands trailing down to my waist with a tender urgency that made my skin crawl.

“I’ll never hurt you, Azalea. I just want to love you.”

Love. The word tasted bitter in my mind, laced with betrayal and despair. How could he call this love when all he’d done was destroy the life I had known?

His hands moved to the hem of my dress, and in a final act of defiance, I pushed at his chest with all the strength I could muster. My fingers dug into his chest, trying to create distance, but he didn’t budge.

“Stop!” I cried, my voice breaking as I fought to hold onto what little was left of my dignity.

He froze for a moment, his dark eyes searching mine with a curiosity that almost seemed human. I thought I saw something—hesitation, maybe even guilt—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. His expression hardened like stone.

“You’re mine,” he said again, his voice low and unyielding, final in its proclamation.

“Nothing will change that.”

Tears streamed down my face as I turned my head away, my body trembling with the weight of his words. I could feel his presence pressing in on me from all sides, suffocating me as he leaned in, his lips pressing against my temple, soft and lingering, but with a possessiveness that made me shudder.

“I’ll make you see,” he whispered, his voice almost tender, a sick mockery of what true tenderness could be.

“I’ll make you love me.”

As his hands continued their gentle exploration, I closed my eyes, letting the tears fall, knowing that no matter what he said, no matter how softly he touched me, this wasn’t love.

This was control.

This was manipulation.

This was my prison.