Unholy Matrimony

The Signs Of Jealousy.

(Sapphire’s POV)

The ride home was suffocating. My husband didn’t speak, didn’t spare me a glance, didn’t even breathe as far as I could see. He just drove with lethal precision, all the veins in his forearm standing out where his hand gripped the steering wheel. His jaw was locked tight, the shadows of the streetlights cutting sharp lines across his impossibly perfectly defined face.

I wanted to say something. Anything. Something to break the silence, to defend myself, to tell him that I could laugh with whomever I damn well pleased—but the words stayed stuck in my throat. Something about the storm brewing in him made me wary.

And hot.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, I reached for the door handle, desperate to run away from the suffocating air. But his voice cut through the silence, low and sharp.

“Not. A. Word.”

It was the first thing he had said since dragging me out of that café. And it left me frozen.

The elevator ride was worse. His hand never touched me, but his presence pressed against me like a vice. By the time the elevator doors slid open to the penthouse, my chest felt tight, my skin buzzing with nervous energy.

The moment the door slammed shut behind us, I spun on him. “You had no right…”

Oh, but he was already waiting for me.

“No right?” His voice cracked like a whip, rough with barely controlled rage.

I stepped back, but he moved forward, his tall frame dominating the room, swallowing up the space between us until my back hit the wall. His hands braced on either side of me, caging me in. His gray eyes were not just angry—they were blazing, wild, terrifying in their stare.

“You think I didn’t see you? Sitting there with him. Smiling. Laughing. Like you belonged to him.”

“He’s just a friend,” I shot back, my voice shaking and cracking despite my best effort. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

His head dipped lower, his lips hovering a breath away from mine. “You’re wrong,” he growled, his breath hot against my skin. “You belong to me.”

I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering. “Because of some contract? Because my father sold me to you?”

“No.” His eyes flashed, and something dark and raw twisted his features. “Because from the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew I wouldn’t let anyone else have you, wife.”

The words stole the air from my lungs. I wanted to scream at him, to push him away, to demand what gave him the right to speak to me like that. But my voice betrayed me, coming out soft, shaky.

“You can’t control me,” I whispered. Again.

That was the breaking point.

Damian’s jaw flexed, his pupils dilated, and in the next heartbeat his hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face up with a firm, unyielding grip. “Watch me.”

His mouth crashed onto mine.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a raging stream of emotions.

Fury. Possession. Hunger. His lips were rough and demanding, forcefully collecting every breath I had, his tongue claiming mine with a force that sent my head spinning. I shoved at his chest, but it was like pushing against a wall of steel. And the worst part?

the most terrifying part was that my hands betrayed me. They fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me, raw and primal. His other hand slid down to my waist, yanking me flush against him. My body lit up like fire, every nerve ending sparking wherever his hands touched me.

“Damian…” I gasped against his mouth, but he swallowed my protest, deepening the kiss until my knees nearly buckled.

His lips left mine only to trail down the curve of my jaw, hot and searing, before finding the erogenous zone just below my right ear. I shivered uncontrollably, my breath hitching.

“You drive me insane,” he muttered against my skin, his voice hoarse, frayed at the edges. “Seeing you with him… laughing with him. You’re mine, Sapphire. Mine.”

My chest heaved. My mind screamed to shove him away, to remind him that this was nothing but a forced marriage, that I didn’t owe him a thing. But my body… my traitorous body melted into his, craving more, craving him. Wanting all of him.

I pushed weakly at his chest again, desperate to regain some ground. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to treat me like I am some property you own.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes molten with something fierce and unguarded. “Then stop looking at me like you want me too.”

My breath caught.

Because he was right. I had wanted it. The moment his lips touched mine, every ounce of resistance inside me cracked. And the truth of it terrified me more than anything.

I shoved at him harder, and this time he let go of me, he took a step back with a rough exhale, dragging a hand through his dark hair like he was trying to put himself on a rope.

The space between us felt charged, electric, the ghost of his kiss still burning on my rough handled lips.

“Don’t test me again, wife,” he said finally, his voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “I won’t be so patient next time.”

And just like that, he walked away, like he was never there, leaving me trembling against the wall, my chest heaving, my heart caught between rage… and something far, far more dangerous.

Want. Need.

I pressed my fingers to my lips, still tingling, still hot.

I hated him. I hated his arrogance, his control, the way he thought he owned me.

But I hated myself more. Hated myself for wanting him back.

Back here with me. Back here in my arms.

What was going own!?