Claimed by my twins father

Chapter 3

DANIELLA'S POV

The bar was dimly lit, the music low and thumping, the bass thudding like a second heartbeat in my chest. I leaned over at the counter and yelled, "Hey bartender! Can I get a bottle of vodka?"

The female bartender, a black tank top pulled taut over her chest, glanced up from cleaning a glass and gave me a thumbs up. I fell back against my stool, drumming fingers on the counter, unsure if I was trembling or just cold, or maybe both.

This was it. My great rebellion. Getting drunk for the first time in a dingy downtown pub that smelled of citrus cleaner and perspiration. A real benchmark. I looked around nervously, heart pounding even as I tried to appear casual. Was it usual to be this anxious when you were about to throw sanity to the winds?

The bartender returned, sliding a skinny bottle and a glass my direction. "You sure about this, honey?"

"Do I look unsure?" I responded, then recalled that I probably did with my swollen eyes and trembling lips. In any case, she said nothing and moved on.

I poured a glass with shaking hands, the liquor splashing against the bar lights as it teetered. I brought it up to my lips and winced at the stinging, burning taste. But I forced myself through it, gulp after bitter gulp. The vodka burned its way down my throat like a punishment.

Could someone die from excessive alcohol? I hoped so halfway. Then I could finally go join Mom. We'd laugh together at how ridiculous life had become.

I turned my head. Stupid thinking. I was 21. A woman. A grown woman sitting around bars pouting about missing Mommy was pathetic even to me. But the ache never did disappear from my chest.

By the time I'd downed the first glass, my head was spinning, and I was feeling airy. Too airy. I blinked, trying to orient myself. Was I supposed to be this intoxicated from half a pint? Probably not. Maybe I had the drinking capacity of a kitten. First time and all that.

I waved a sloppy hand at the barman and slurred, "Another… please."

Before the glass could be refilled, a tall figure slid into the chair next to me. Pinewood and smoke scented something citrusy and clean wrapped around him. I blinked slowly, trying to focus.

A low voice said, "Hey, beautiful."

I was too occupied to reply, distracted instead by a man across the room apparently licking alcohol off a woman's bosom. It took a moment to realize the voice had been spoken to me.

I turned around, eyes wide. "Were you speaking to me?"

The man beside me chuckled. His voice was rich and velvety, like melted chocolate. "Yes. Who else would I be speaking to?"

I blinked again, staring at him. He had sharp cheekbones and intense, dark eyes. Hair pulled back, a faint scar over his brow. “Uh… literally everyone else in this room?”

His smile dimmed slightly, and he shook his head before lifting his glass. “You’re beautiful,” he said again, as though it were fact.

I laughed, dry and bitter, and looked away. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he said without missing a beat.

I didn't speak. Instead, I picked up my drink and gulped it down, fast and bitter, the sting now comforting. I needed to drown out his voice. Needed to not feel anything.

But the rage made its way up my spine regardless. My fist tightened around the glass.

"You think it's funny?" I spat, whirling around to face him. "You think it's clever? Mocking some stranger sad girl at a bar with insincere compliments?

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"You don't have to pretend," I snapped, fighting to balance as I lurched forward. "I do know what I look like. I do know I'm not… not her. Not like Vaela. Or…..or anyone. You don't have to be nice by pretending."

His eyes softened as he reached out, his fingers gently wrapping around my chin.

"I'm not lying," he said. "You're beautiful. I don't care what anyone else says."

My heart dropped somewhere into the pit of my stomach. I was weightless and heavy all at once. Like I was floating, trapped in a haze.

I pulled my chin away, eyes wet and blurry. "You're lying."

The image of Davon's body, of Vaela rubbing against him, her mouth open in fake ecstasy, seared itself into my mind. They were perfect. Together. Beautiful. Perfect.

And me? I was a joke.

I turned to the man beside me, voice breaking. "You really think so?"

He looked at me, hard and long. Then nodded. "Yeah. I do."

Something in me snapped.

I squared my shoulders. Vodka burned my veins. My cheeks flushed, not with shame, but a surge of something wild.

"Then f**k me," I said, voice loud and defiant.

The man blinked at me, brows lifted in surprise. “What?”

I met his gaze squarely, swaying a little on the barstool but determined. “I said, f**k me.”

His mouth parted slightly, and for a moment he looked like he’d just been slapped with a wet towel. He rubbed a hand across his jaw, eyes scanning my face like he was checking if I was serious. When I didn’t back down, didn’t laugh it off, didn’t call it a joke, he shifted in his seat, visibly floundering.

“What…why would you…?”

I asked, the bitter sound slipping out before I could stop it. I looked away, eyes stinging. Of course. He hadn’t meant any of it. The compliments. The soft eyes. The reassuring voice. All a lie. My vision blurred as I reached for the drink the bartender had slid my way, fingers trembling slightly.

Before I could touch it, his hand darted out and snatched the glass away.

“Hey!” I slurred, frowning at him.

But he wasn’t looking at me. He sniffed the drink, swirled it lightly, then glared at the bartender, who, after catching the intensity in his eyes, abruptly turned and walked off to the other end of the bar.

“What was that about?” I mumbled.

He set the glass far away from me, then turned fully in his seat, reaching for my hand. “Come on,” he said quietly, his voice lower now, controlled but firm.

I blinked. “Come on?”

He stood up, still holding his hand out to me. “Let’s f**k,” he said.

The words hit harder than they should have. They weren’t spoken with cruelty or mockery. He just said them, like he was agreeing to go for a walk. I blinked again, confusion swirling through the alcohol haze.

“You’re serious?” I asked, trying to read his expression.

He nodded once, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “You said it. I’m just going with it.”

A part of me wanted to laugh. Another part, the louder one, pushed me to be reckless. I was tired of feeling like I didn’t exist.

I took his hand.

The world spun slightly as we left the bar. The night air slapped against my skin, sobering me just enough to realize what I was doing, but not enough to stop it. We walked two blocks in silence, my heels clicking against the pavement, his stride steady and sure.

We stumbled into a hotel, one of those sleek, modern places with too much chrome and not enough warmth. He handed his card to the receptionist and barely waited for the keycard before pulling me toward the elevator.

The ride up was quiet, except for my shallow breathing and the hum of the lift.

Once we got to the room, everything was a blur. My body felt heavy, like it didn’t belong to me. But the second he shut the door behind us, his lips found mine.

Heat exploded under my skin.

Clothes came off, mine, his, tossed carelessly onto the floor. I couldn’t think. I didn’t want to. All I could do was feel. And I felt everything.

His touch was everywhere. His mouth trailed fire down my skin. My moans echoed off the walls as he worshipped me in ways I didn’t even know I needed. My fingers clutched at sheets, at his back, at his hair. Every stroke, every movement pulled me further out of myself, out of the pain, the shame, the hurt.

I didn’t know when I cried. I just knew I did. Somewhere between the first o****m and the second, the tears came quiet but real. And he didn’t say anything. He just held me tighter, kissed me deeper, moved slower.

I don’t remember how it ended. Just that I passed out, exhausted and raw, his scent on my skin and my body aching in ways that felt too tangled to define.