Chapter Six to Eight of my Dark Romance Novel[Natasha&Vaughn]

 Chapter 6

NATASHA 

“What’s next?” 

Rosalie leans over my shoulder, watching as I stir the creamy sauce in slow, deliberate circles. The sharp citrus scent of lemon mingles with the rich aroma of butter and parmesan, curling into the air between us. 

“Just a minute,” I murmur, gauging the texture. “It needs to thicken a little more.”

She hums in approval. “Good. Most people add the cream too soon, and it ruins the consistency.” 

A hint of satisfaction tugs at my lips. “I learned from the best.” 

“That you did.” She smiles before reaching for the fresh basil, tearing the leaves with practiced ease. “Did Vaughn teach you, or did you force your way into his kitchen?” 

The question is meant to be light, teasing. But something about it catches me off guard. My fingers falter against the spoon. The words slip out before I can stop them. 

“Vaughn made this for me on my birthday.” 

The shift is instant. I feel it before I see it. Like stepping off solid ground, realizing too late that there’s nothing beneath you. 

I plate a spoonful of Pasta al Limone for Rosalie and myself, focusing on the steady rhythm of movement, but something about the moment feels too exposed. Like I’ve peeled back a layer I never intended to. 

Rosalie doesn’t comment on it, but I notice the slight tilt of her head. The way her eyes soften just a fraction before she says, “Of course he did. It’s his mother’s recipe. His favorite.” 

His mother. 

I hesitate, then glance at her. “Where is she now?” 

The reaction is immediate. Rosalie stills, her hands trembling as her breath catches. Her smile, always so warm and effortless, vanishes. I watch as she blinks rapidly, but the single tear clinging to her lashes betrays her. Something in my chest tightens. 

“Rosalie?” I set the bowl aside and reach for her arm. “Are you alright? Did I say something wrong?” 

No response. 

It’s as if she’s been swallowed whole by a memory too painful to resurface from. My pulse kicks up. 

“Rosalie, should I call someone?” My voice is sharper now, cutting through whatever abyss she’s trapped in. 

The moment shatters. 

She blinks, a breath catching in her throat before she forces a smile—one so radiant, so practiced, I almost believe it. “No, dear.” Her soft fingers graze my jaw in a motherly touch. “I’m alright. Come, sit down. Let’s see how well you can cook.” 

She shifts as if the moment never happened, but something about it lingers. Something I don’t push. We all have things we don’t talk about. Wounds that fester beneath the surface. If this is hers, I won’t press further. I exhale. 

“Alright.” Settling beside her, I slide the plate forward. “Tell me how I did.” 

Rosalie takes a bite, chewing slowly before a satisfied hum vibrates through her throat. “Just like Mrs. Volkov used to make it.” 

She wipes her mouth with a napkin, eyes gleaming with approval. “Vaughn will love it.” 

My stomach twists. The fork tightens in my grip before I shove it into the pasta with unnecessary force. “I don’t care if he does.” 

My voice is sharp, clipped. “I made enough for two of us. No one else.” 

Rosalie exhales, her fingers tightening slightly around her glass. “I’m sorry that you had to go through this, Natasha. Vaughn never talks much, so I don’t know why he did what he did. But I’ve known him for a long time.” 

She pauses, something distant flickering in her gaze. “I’ve seen the cracks in him since the day he learned about you.” Something in the way she says it makes my stomach pull tight. “There’s something in you that draws him in,” she continues, her voice thoughtful, hesitant. “Makes him want to be… worthy of you.” Then, almost as if catching herself, she shakes her head. “And I think he’s lying to himself about that.” 

A sharp, uneasy chill prickles my skin. “What do you mean?” 

Rosalie hesitates. It’s a brief flicker, a split-second slip—but I catch it. The tightening of her lips. The way she glances at the table, as if weighing her words. “For over a year now, he’s been obsessed with you…”

Rosalie’s voice trails off. My fingers tighten around the fork, but I don’t move. Don’t breathe. I replay her words in my mind, once, twice—until the number carves itself into my skull like a scar.

A year. 

The word crashes into me like ice water. 

“A year?” My voice barely rises above a whisper. “But I only met him two months ago.” 

“Yes…” The word is hurried.

“But you just said a year.” My heart is beating too fast. “Which one is it, Rosalie?” 

She straightens, reaching for the empty bowls. “I must have misspoken.” A soft, forced laugh escapes her. “Age is taking a toll on my memory these days.” 

She’s lying. 

I see it in the way she won’t meet my eyes. In the way she grips the dish just a little too tightly. I take a step forward, a thousand questions surging up my throat, but before I can push for more, she scoops some of the pasta into a container and seals it. “I should get going. There’s something I forgot to do in the garden.” 

She turns before I can stop her, her steps brisk, her shoulders slightly hunched—as if she’s carrying the weight of something unspoken. 

The door shuts behind her, leaving behind an unsettling quiet. I sit back down, my hands curling into fists against my lap. 

One year. 

The pendant. 

The one I lost months before I even met Vaughn. The one he somehow had in his possession. A slow, nauseating realization slithers through me confirming my paranoia. Something I had suspected since the day he retuned my pendant. 

He knew. 

He had known about me long before I ever knew him. 

A sharp shudder wracks my body. How long? How much had he seen? Was it just the casual glimpses of a stranger from afar? Or had it been more? Had he followed me home? Stood outside my apartment? Watched me sleep? 

I swallow hard, a cold weight settling in my stomach. I think of all the moments I was alone in my room. Undressing. Singing in the shower. Lying in bed with the windows open. Touching myself assuming no one was looking. 

I think of how often I had the feeling of being watched. How I brushed it off. Was it him? 

The air in the room feels heavier, like the walls are closing in. Being watched isn’t just unsettling. It’s an invasion. A violation. The kind that leaves an invisible mark on your skin, a lingering unease that never truly fades. 

And it was him. 

The man who watches like he owns me. The man who touched me with such devastating certainty, as if I had always belonged to him. I feel sick. 

Because a part of me wonders—was this always his plan? Had I ever really had a choice? 

The scent of garlic and lemon still fills the kitchen, but my appetite has long vanished. Five days. Vaughn hasn’t shown his face in five damn days. 

Not that it matters. His presence lingers like cigarette smoke, clinging to every inch of this place, curling under my skin. Even when I can’t see him, I feel him. Watching. Controlling. Owning. 

The faint sound of a voice outside the kitchen makes my hands pause. My grip on the glass tightens. 

A second later, I hear it again. Sharp. Lethal. Vaughn. 

My stomach knots. I press my back against the wall, moving toward the doorframe, careful not to make a sound. 

The hallway outside is dim, but I can see him through the narrow gap between the door and the frame. Standing there, tension coiled in his broad shoulders, his phone pressed to his ear. 

“Find him. I don’t care how.” My pulse stammers. He sounds different. Cold, even for him. 

He turns slightly, looking toward the hallway—toward my door. I hold my breath. “I need to know what he’s up to.” Vaughn’s voice drops into something even more dangerous, a slow, venomous whisper. “Why is he calling her so many times?” 

A pause. 

“Ivan, seventeen. That’s how many missed calls from a certain Dante are in Natasha’s phone.” A sharp pang of panic lurches through my chest. “Who is he, and why the fuck is he so desperate to reach her?” 

Vaughn’s hand flexes, his grip on the phone tightening like he’s strangling it. 

Silence. Ivan must be answering him. 

“She said he’s a childhood friend?” Vaughn repeats, his tone mocking, disbelieving. A bitter scoff follows. “Then tell me, Ivan—what kind of friend calls her seventeen times in a row?” 

I swear I can hear his breathing shift. Can hear the sick, violent thoughts twisting through his mind. 

“Is he her boyfriend?” The word is pure poison, spit like a curse. I see it then—the tick in his jaw, the way his entire body goes rigid like the thought alone is enough to wreck him. 

His fist clenches, and I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. Ivan says something. Whatever it is, it doesn’t calm him. 

“I don’t care how you do it.” Vaughn’s voice is nothing but steel now. “Ask Anastasia. Dig into her friends. I want to know everything about him.” 

There’s a pause—a long, deadly one. 

“I am not letting any man near her.” His voice is low, guttural. It’s not just anger. It’s possession. It’s something deeper, darker, something that burns through him. 

A sharp exhale follows, quiet but cutting. 

“Especially this Dante.” 

The call ends. I don’t move. Can’t breathe. The air is thick, suffocating. My mind races, my heart pounding so hard I swear it’ll give me away. 

Dante. Shit. 

I had forgotten completely about him. I need to contact him. 

Now Vaughn thinks Dante is a threat. And if there’s one thing I know about Vaughn, it’s that he doesn’t make empty threats. When he wants something, he takes it—rips it from the world if he has to. I swallow hard. 

I need my phone. From Vaughn. Somehow. Anyhow. 

Before this turns into something I can’t escape. 

~ 

The clock strikes twelve when my eyes finally start to give in. 

I have a plan. A distraction. A way to get my phone back from that monster’s grip. 

It’s reckless. Dangerous. If I slip up, I could lose my only chance. But I don’t have a choice anymore. I’m desperate. Running out of options. 

For seven days, I’ve wandered through every corner of this house, searching for a way out. For six nights, I’ve cried myself to sleep. And yet, I’m still here. Trapped. 

Every entrance is locked. Armed guards patrol the hallways, their gazes like silent warnings—there’s no escaping this place. No escaping him. 

Rosalie checks on me four times a day, hovering like a shadow. She never lets me out of her sight, and when the clock strikes nine, she secures me in Vaughn’s bed as if I belong there. 

I had started to lose hope. 

Until this evening. Until Vaughn said Dante’s name. 

That was my lifeline. My connection to the world outside these walls. Dante must be losing his mind right now. We’ve spoken every night since I left Malaysia and came to Russia. It was a promise. A thread keeping us tethered across the miles. 

And now, Vaughn has cut it. 

The thought tightens around my chest, heavy and suffocating. I need to reach him. 

The room is dark except for the soft glow of the lamp Rosalie always leaves on. Ever since that night Vaughn came in. 

My eyes find comfort in the dim light, but exhaustion still drags me under. Sleep takes over. Not sleep. 

Nightmare. 

The same one. Every night. 

The scent of blood is the first thing I notice. Metallic. Thick. It coats my tongue, saturates the air, fills my lungs until I can’t breathe. 

My mother lies crumpled in my arms, her warmth slipping away with each passing second. The deep crimson pooling beneath her is still fresh, soaking into the floor, staining my skin as I clutch her tighter. Her lips are parted, frozen mid-breath. Mid-scream. 

I press trembling fingers against them, as if I can wipe away the blood. As if I can fix this. I can’t. 

A sob rips from my throat, raw and broken. The house is silent. The screaming stopped long ago. 

But then— Laughter. 

Not mine. His. 

The sound slithers through the walls, a sickening echo that crawls under my skin. I turn my head. My father stands in the next room, a glass of whiskey in his hand, smiling. 

Not a flicker of grief crosses his face. He doesn’t look at my mother’s body. Doesn’t acknowledge the wife he just lost. Because she was never more than collateral damage. 

A pawn in his endless thirst for power. 

A strangled cry tears through my throat as my eyes snap open. My body jerks against the restraints, my wrists burning where the ties dig into my skin. 

My breath comes in ragged, uneven gasps, but no matter how much air I pull in, it isn’t enough. My vision swims, the nightmare still clinging to me like a second skin. 

I should’ve been there for her. 

I could have saved her. 

The thought slams into me, hollow and brutal, the weight of it pressing down on my chest. Tears slip down my cheeks, hot and unchecked, as I yank at the restraints. 

My lungs seize, my vision tunneling into a suffocating haze. My hands shake, fingers flexing in a desperate bid for control. 

Breathe, Natasha. 

The words are distant, echoing in the depths of my mind. But the panic is stronger. I can’t breathe. 

The walls press in, shrinking, suffocating. I hear my mother’s screams. I see the blood. My hands are covered in it. My mother’s. 

No, no, no. 

I wrench at the ties, the rough fabric slicing into my skin. Warmth trickles down my wrists, but all I see is her. 

Her dead body. 

Her lifeless eyes. 

The silence of her last breath. 

A scream rips from my throat before I realize I’m the one making the sound. My body trembles, my mind fracturing under the weight of a past that won’t let me go. 

And then—No. Not him. Anyone but him.

 “Vaughn…” 

The name falls from my lips, raw and broken. A plea I don’t mean to make. 

Why him? 

He is the one who put me here. The one who ripped me from my life, stole my freedom, and bound me to his world like I was nothing more than a possession. He tied me to this bed, reduced me to a pawn in his ruthless game, shattered every illusion of control I thought I had. He betrayed me. 

And yet—when my demons rise from the depths, when the darkness coils around my throat like a noose, suffocating, relentless—his name is the one I reach for. A sick twist of fate. A betrayal of my own mind. 

Maybe the past weeks I spent with him—or his facade—have done more damage than I realized. Maybe the time spent under his gaze, within his grasp, has left a stain that I can’t scrub away. 

Because even now, when I should be thinking of escape, of vengeance, of anything but him—he’s the only one who cuts through the suffocating dark.

However, before I can understand the reason behind it, before I can stop myself from repeating the same mistake again—

A louder sob rips through my throat, my body rebelling against my mind. I don’t want this. I don’t want him. But my body doesn’t listen. My mind doesn’t care.

“Vaughn…”

It’s barely a whisper, but it tastes like defeat. 

A loud noise registers somewhere in the haze of my consciousness, but my body is already shutting down. My limbs go limp. My vision fades. 

And all I see is red.

Chapter 7

VAUGHN

My back burns, but my chest aches more. More than it did five years ago. More than it did three years back when I set my entire world on fire with my bare hands. But this—this pain is unlike anything else. It drowns out every other wound, every other scar. Because the source of it is her. The woman whose blood made her my enemy. 

I should have killed her when she was just a name, a bloodline. 

But now—now that I know her—I can’t even stand the sight of her in pain. Whether it’s flesh and bone or something I can’t even touch. 

The difference? I can kill whoever dares to even think of harming her. I have killed for her. But her dreams—her nightmares—I can’t fucking touch them. I can’t rip them apart, can’t shoot them between the eyes, can’t drag them into the depths where I send those who cross me. They keep her trapped in some darkness I can’t reach. 

Once, I used to watch. Admire the way she fought against invisible hands tightening around her throat. 

Now? Now, I hate myself for it. Because I can’t pull her out of the hell she’s trapped in. I can’t protect her from this. 

Why the fuck is this happening to me? 

The door cracks against the hinge as I shove it open. 

Natasha is a vision of ruin against the silk sheets—white negligee slipping off her shoulder, wrists bound in the very ropes I tied her with. But it isn’t the silk holding her down. It’s the demons. The ones that have lived inside her long before she became mine.

And they are nothing like mine. 

I’ve always known Natasha as a creature of light. Too much light. She smiles too often. So much that my own darkness has ached to snuff it out, to teach her what real torture feels like. Maybe then, she would know what it’s like to stand here, powerless, as the thing you want most writhes in agony and you—ruthless, brutal, merciless—can do nothing about it. 

I’ve been hunted, cut open, left to rot. I’ve been strung up in a noose of betrayal by the people closest to me. I’ve torn a bullet from my father’s skull with my own hands. I’ve watched water choke the last breath from my mother’s lungs. I’ve lost myself in blood and vengeance. Yet nothing—nothing—has ever driven me to the edge of insanity like this. 

Like her. 

I don’t believe in God. Never have. He didn’t come when I drowned in my own darkness. Didn’t come when I stood on the precipice of death, my fate tipping me toward the abyss. 

Maybe I’m exactly what they call me—a villain, a monster. A man with bloodstained hands who was never meant to be saved. But Natasha… she should have been. 

She is everything I am not. 

She sees good where there is none. Feels warmth in a world built from ice. Her touch grazes the dying embers of my humanity, coaxing them back to life when they should have burned out long ago. She smiles even when her eyes scream in pain. She forgives when she shouldn’t. She is the kind of person men would die for. 

And still, she suffers. 

A choked sob escapes her lips, barely a whisper. Then another. A cry, trembling and raw. Then a scream—a piercing, ragged wail as her body convulses, spiraling out of

My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand. The ice inside cracks, melting against the warmth of my skin. With every tremor that wracks her body, my grip clenches tighter. Tighter—until the glass splinters. A sharp crack splits the silence, and the jagged edges bite into my palm. 

She stirs. Her lashes flutter, her breath hitching as if clawing her way to the surface. 

Then—her eyes. 

Dark brown pools of agony, vast and endless. 

And I want to drown. I want to dive into the depths of her suffering and drink it down, swallow every last drop of her pain until it sears through my throat, until it burns me alive—so it never touches her again. 

But I can’t. 

Not even I can stop this. 

Why are you doing this to me, solnyshka?

I’ve built myself to not give a damn about anyone. Not even myself. Yet when my eyes find hers, something inside me tears open, like a blade dragged through raw flesh. And I bleed in a way I’ve never bled before.

Her breathing turns ragged. Too fast. Then too slow. Then—gasps. Shallow. Sharp. Her body is locking up, lungs refusing to work. She’s losing whatever anchor she has in this world.

I’ve seen her in nightmares before—watched her thrash and whimper. But this… this is different.

She isn’t fighting.

She’s giving in.

And that—that—is unacceptable.

Bad for you, solnyshka.

I won’t let you sink.

I might hate you. Or maybe I don’t. Maybe I never did. But I’ll be damned if I let you choose your own suffering.

That right belongs to me.

Her fists clench the duvet so hard the fabric rips under her nails. A broken sound escapes her throat, something between a sob and a breathless plea. She’s slipping away from me, diving deeper into the abyss, letting it drag her under.

No.

No.

She doesn’t get to leave me like this.

I move without thinking, instincts razor-sharp. Precise. I’ve studied this. Watched too many videos. Consulted doctors who don’t even know my name. I learned everything I could about what happens when the mind breaks—when terror consumes so completely that the body forgets how to function.

Because I knew this moment would come.

I knew.

I just didn’t know it would feel like this—like my own fucking soul is unraveling.

The glass in my hand is already broken, shards digging into my palm, warm blood mixing with melting ice. I don’t feel it.

I snatch a piece of ice and shove it between her lips, forcing it past her teeth.

Cold. Sharp. 

A brutal shock to her system.

Her body jolts. A stuttered inhale. A choking sound. And then—a violent gasp as she drags in air, her throat convulsing, her body shuddering as the ice burns against her tongue.

Her eyes snap open.

Wild. Haunted. Here.

She’s here.

And for the first time since stepping into this room, I can fucking breathe.

“Suck.”

Not a request. A command. And I’ll make damn sure she follows it.

She’s barely conscious, her body wrecked with tremors, her breath a ragged stutter. But the moment she senses me closer—on the bed, beside her—her defiance notches up. Her lips twitch at the cold sensation before she spits the ice straight into my face.

Fuck.

Why does she have to make everything so fucking difficult?

“Now is not the time for rebellion, baby.” My voice is low, but there’s an edge to it. A warning. A threadbare restraint against the raw fear clawing under my skin.

I can’t lose her. I won’t lose her.

I grip her jaw, forcing it open, and shove another cube between her teeth. “Suck the damn ice, Natasha, or I will drive it down your throat with my tongue.”

The words snap through the fog in her head, her body tensing. A flicker of something in those dark, drowning eyes—awareness. Resistance. Good. I need her to fight.

“You won’t dare.” Her voice is a shattered snarl, her entire body spent from the aftershocks of her attack. And yet, even drained and wrecked, she refuses to submit.

Fucking hell, does she even know how much I want to ruin her for this?

“I will.” My grip tightens, my own pulse hammering against my skull. “I will do anything to keep you breathing, so either listen to me or watch me prove it in ways you won’t like.”

Her wrists jerk against the ties, the silk digging deeper into torn flesh. Blood weeps from raw skin, the scent sharp against the sweat and fear clinging to her.

I curse under my breath. “Calm the fuck down, printsessa. If you want to strangle me, get your damn strength back first.”

I don’t tell her the truth—that I don’t give a damn what she does to me once she does.

With one hand forcing her mouth open, making sure she doesn’t spit the ice out again, I use the other to untie the ropes cutting into her skin. The moment they fall away, my chest tightens. Dried blood streaks over the soft curves of her wrists. Tiny, delicate bones marred by my own hands.

This is my doing.

I don’t care.

I shouldn’t.

The ice melts in her mouth, the shock of cold dragging her back from the abyss. Her body stills, her breathing steadies, her heartbeat slows.

Good.

Then she does exactly what I expect her to do.

Even with her body wrecked and her wrists torn open from the binds, my little fighter still manages to wrap her bruised fingers around my throat.

The pressure is weak. Trembling. But fuck if I don’t feel it.

“Isn’t it so predictable, love?” I rasp, letting her get the control for before prying her hands off me, dragging them down, pinning them above her head. 

“Try something new.”

Her breath shudders. Lips parting, body still jerking from the remnants of panic. My grip tightens around her wrists, pressing them against the headboard. She’s so fragile beneath me, every muscle tensed for a war she knows she can’t win.

“Stand down, love, and let me work on you.”

It comes out rougher than I meant. Lower. Thicker. The edge of a promise that has nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with her.

Another tremor rolls through her, but it has nothing to do with fear this time.

I drop another ice cube between her teeth, watching—waiting. The first one is gone, melted between her lips, leaving her mouth wet, slick. A droplet slides from the corner, down the sharp edge of her jaw, over the column of her throat, slipping lower. Lower—

Fuck.

The ice trails between her breasts, disappearing beneath thin silk.

And I see it.

See her.

No bra. Just white. Too white. Clinging, barely hiding, making her skin an invitation I shouldn’t even be looking at.

My cock hardens, the weight of restraint pressing down on me like a vice. I shift, angle my body to hide it, but it’s useless.

This isn’t fucking sensual. She’s suffering. She needs help. Keep your goddamn head straight, Vaughn.

But I can’t.

Not with her. Not when it comes to her.

And to make it worse—to make it so fucking unbearable—her pulse spikes again, the erratic thrum of her heartbeat racing under my fingers. Her chest rises and falls too fast. Her nipples harden beneath the fabric, peaking, betraying her body in ways her mind won’t allow.

Not fucking helping, solnyshka.

She might hate me, but her body doesn’t.

It still reacts. Still betrays her.

Her breath hitches when my thumb drags across her lower lip—slow, torturous. She tries to keep her expression blank, to keep control, but she misses a beat. Just one. And then—her thighs fucking clench.

Mother-fucking-hell.

Tame it down. Tame it the fuck down.

And I fail. Miserably.

My gaze drops, trailing over her breasts, down her waist, lower—to the hem of that damn gown. It ends too high, barely covering the curve of her ass. Bare skin. Exposed.Tempting me with something I want desperately.

“Keep sucking.”

The command comes out wrong. Too wrong.

The moment the words leave my mouth, a soft, wrecked sound escapes hers. A moan—muffled, hesitant, so fucking sinful.

A grunt rumbles through my chest before I can stop it. My restraint—what’s left of it—splinters as our gazes lock.

And in that moment, I lose.

Every leash I had on myself, every chain keeping me in check, every goddamn rule I carved into my bones—burns.

I shouldn’t touch her. I fucking promised I wouldn’t.

But I do.

And Natasha doesn’t stop me.

Maybe it’s the vulnerability wrapping around her like a second skin. Maybe it’s because her defenses are shot to hell, leaving her raw and open in ways I’ve never seen before.

Or maybe—maybe she doesn’t want to.

And I, like the ruthless bastard I am, use it.

My fingers slide up, gripping the inside of her thigh. Hard. Hard enough to leave a mark. To claim.

Then—she moans.

Not a sound. A name.

My fucking name.

Her breath hitches. Not in fear. Not in resistance.

I see it—see her. The moment she lets go, the war in her gaze falling silent, something fragile and damning surfacing instead.

It shatters me. More than her defiance ever could.

My fingers tighten on her throat, my thumb grazing the rapid pulse beneath. I clench my jaw with an unforgiving force.

Say it. I don’t speak the words, but she hears them. Feels them.

Natasha’s lips part, breathless, ruined—

“Vaughn.”

I feel it in my chest, sharp and lethal.

This woman will be my downfall. And I don’t fight it anymore.

At least not tonight.

Chapter 8

Vaughn

Fuck.

She doesn’t even realize what she’s asking for.

Or maybe she does.

Maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing—knows that her whimper, her sob, her fucking tears are wrecking me more than any bullet ever could.

Her breath stutters, shallow and uneven, but she keeps sucking the ice. Slow. Deliberate.Her tongue flicks against it, a drop of water slipping from the corner of her lips and trailing down her chin.

I should pull away. I should end this now before we both fall off the edge.

Instead, I watch. I fucking watch.

And I want.

"Please, Vaughn," she chokes out, voice breaking. “Don’t leave me. Make me feel it. Feel you. Don’t stop.”

Another sob.

Another tear slipping down her cheek.

My restraint turns to dust.

I own her pain. I fucking created it. And now she wants me to replace it.

Not with comfort. With something darker. Something that will leave her breathless and spent, body boneless beneath mine.

And fuck me, I almost give it to her.

Almost.

My fingers twitch against her waist, my cock straining against my pants as I fight the sick need to ruin her in a way she’ll never recover from.

She deserves better.

Better than a man who wants to break her just to put her back together in his image. Better than the monster she’s begging to touch her.

But when I loosen my grip, her body trembles.

Not from fear.

From loss.

As if she can already feel the absence of my hands. As if she craves my touch more than she fears what it might mean.

I can’t fucking breathe.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, solnyshka.” My voice is raw. Unsteady. Dangerous.

Her lashes flutter. She doesn’t take it back. Despite my warning.

And that?

That fucking destroys me.

I know she’s not fully conscious.

The demons of her nightmares still have their claws in her, pulling her between dreams and reality. She doesn’t understand what she’s asking of me. If I were a good man, I’d ignore her. I’d pull away.

But I’m not a good man.

I am a man standing at the edge of something I shouldn’t want—but I do.

I want to touch her. Feel her under my hands. Trace every curve, taste every inch, mark her so deeply that no one will ever be able to wash me off her skin. I want to spank her. Fuck her. Make her fall apart until my name is the only thing she remembers.

I should hate that I want these things.

But I don’t.

Not when she’s like this.

A single moment. A few minutes. An hour of this pretend game, and I could know how her mouth would feel wrapped around my cock. How her cries would sound as she shattered under me. How it would feel to have her worship me like I was the only divine she’d ever know.

I move without thinking. My knee parts her thighs. My fingers find the wet heat between her legs, pressing against the thin fabric of her panties. Her breath hitches. Her body jerks. And fuck, she’s soaked.

A strangled moan leaves her lips. My name.

“Vaughn…”

Shattered. Desperate.

And I’ve never liked the sound of it more.

“Fuck, solnyshka…” I groan, dragging my hand up her body, palming her breast, rolling her nipple between my fingers. “Only you can make me do this.”

I twist her nipple. Pinch it. And then I drag my tongue over the peak.

She cries out, arching against me, and the sound is so fucking obscene my cock aches.

"Open your eyes, solnyshka."

She does.

And what I see in them?

It’s not fear. Not hatred.

It’s lust. Sin. The same darkness that’s drowning me.

I smirk. “I’ll make sure you taste every inch of your sins, printsessa.”

I twist her nipple harder, watching her face, watching her break for me.

She’s new to this. I know. She’s a virgin. I know.

And so am I.

I never wanted this before her. Never touched a woman like this. Never let anyone touch me. But she’s not just any woman.

She’s Natasha Solovey.

The daughter of the man who murdered my father. The reason I became the bastard I am.

And yet—she’s the only one who makes me feel like a man again.

The woman I should hate.

The woman I can’t.

I tug her nipples again between my fingers, rolling, squeezing—pushing. Testing her limits. The sharp hiss she lets out only makes me crueler. 

I lap over the ache, soothing it with my tongue, only to pull her deeper into my torment.

The moment she begins melting into the softness, I bite. A sharp suck between my teeth. A spank against her other breast. Pleasure. Pain. A taste of release—then nothing.

Tasting it but never getting it.

Welcome to my world, solnyshka.

Have a taste of the torture I’ve endured since the day I first saw you.

I do it until she’s a trembling, wrecked mess beneath me, her lips parted, drool glistening at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes—fuck, her eyes. Pleading. Begging me in the way I’ve always wanted her to.

“Please, Vaughn…” she whispers.

My grip tightens as I force her thighs apart, baring the sight that sends blood surging straight to my cock.

White lace.

Soaked.

Dripping.

For me.

The pressure in my slacks turns unbearable. Fuck, I need to get my dick out before I disgrace myself like a fucking teenager.

Before I can think, I’m already between her thighs. My fingers knead her sore breasts as I drag my tongue down the soft inside of her thigh. Slow. Deliberate.

The scent of her arousal consumes me. Annihilates me.

I clench my jaw and press a firm palm over her drenched core, keeping the lace in place. Keeping her untouched.Keeping her mine.

“By the way, love, I love when you cook. For me. Tell me, were you thinking of me when you made Pasta Al Limone? Do you remember the way I licked the sauce off your cheeks when I taught you the recipe?”

Natasha squirms, her body torn between escaping the overload of pleasure and needing it. Needing me.

I give her one more lick. One more taste. Then, right where her thigh meets her core, I bite.

Hard. Merciless.

If I can’t get her out of my mind, then she sure as fuck can’t get rid of me.

I mark her. Suck until the skin blooms an angry red. Then, I spit. Letting a slick trail of saliva coat the raw, sensitive spot before I lick it up.

She shatters. Her spine bows, her cry breaking on my name—a sound I want to fucking drown in.

"You're doing so good, baby." My breath fans against her soaked panties, and she whimpers, another wave of liquid dampening the lace.

Fucking perfect.

"Hold on a little more for me, yeah?"

Her fingers fist my hair. Desperate. Destroyed.

“I can’t, Vaughn.” Her voice is ragged, shredded with need. “I need to come.”

I smirk against her trembling skin.

A plea I ignore.

I give her soaked pussy a tight squeeze before sucking a fresh bruise on the other side.

“Just a little longer, printsessa.”

She moans.

Good-fucking-lord. This woman will make me explode in my goddamn trousers.

Her hips jerk against my mouth, a desperate attempt to chase the pleasure I keep just out of reach. 

My tongue drags over the thin lace covering her cunt—wet, ruined fabric that leaves little to the imagination. A soft patch of hair greets me, and the need to see her bareshreds my restraint.

I tighten my grip on her nipples, twist, pull— and then sink my teeth into her panties.

Rip.

The fabric shreds under the sharp bite, hanging loose around her thighs.

“You’re so wet for me, Natasha.” My voice is a low, guttural growl, vibrating against the slick heat of her cunt.

Her nightmare is long gone. I’m the only thing she knows now.

“I need…”

A moan.

A slow flick of my tongue against her drenched folds.

“I need you in…”

A cry. Loud. Raw. A sound that every soul in this mansion now knows belongs to me.

Another lick.

“I need you inside, Vaughn,” she gasps. Broken.

Fuck, I’ll ruin her.

“Of course, baby,” I murmur, tracing lazy, torturous circles around her swollen clit. Her slick drips down my fingers, her untouched hole fluttering around nothing.

“But first,” I press a slow, teasing kiss to her most sensitive spot, “there’s something I need to ask.”

Her thighs tremble.

“Who did you think of,” I whisper, “when you touched yourself in your dorm? Me or some fucker called Dante?”

She stiffens. Her eyes snap open—shock, realization, submission.

“You were there,” she breathes, her voice a shaken exhale. “I knew someone was watching.”

A sinister smirk curls my lips. My fingers wrap around her clit, pinching it hard.

Her gasp shatters into a whimper, eyes glossing with tears.

“Not someone, solnyshka.” I dip my head, tongue laving over her trembling, swollen bundle of nerves.

She sobs.

“Only me.” My voice is a rough, possessive growl against her pussy.

“Only I get to watch you touch yourself.”

A sharp thrust of my index finger inside her tight, heated cunt.

“Only I get to bring you pleasure.”

I push deeper, my tongue curling against the swollen lips of her cunt. My finger stretches her, virgin walls sucking me in, resisting me, needing me.

“Only I get to fuck you,” I murmur against her core.

Her cry is sinful.

“To fill your tight little hole.”

I thrust deeper. Feel the delicate barrier inside her.

A satisfied growl rumbles through my chest.

“With my fingers.” I push my tongue inside her, pressing against my own thrusting hand.

Her body is shaking apart.

“With my tongue.” I nip at her dripping entrance, tugging, teasing—owning.

She shatters.

Her orgasm rips through her, screaming my name as she explodes into my mouth.

I drink her down, devour her.

“No more. Please, Vaughn.”

“With my teeth,” I smirk against her overstimulated flesh, sucking until she sobs.

The pleasure keeps rolling through her, unstoppable.

And when the aftershocks make her body jerk—**still aching, still needing—**I thrust another finger inside her.

I lick, I suck, I fucking consume.

“With my cock,” I whisper against her trembling cunt.

“This is too much. I can’t take it,” she whimpers, her voice a broken plea.

Her breasts bounce under the relentless torture of my palm as I slide another finger inside her.

Three fingers.

Her tight little pussy stretches too fast, too rough, too much.

It’s painful. It’s barbaric. It’s pure, fucking pleasure.

My tongue moves faster, lapping up the slick mess she’s drowning in, and she rocks her hips against me—weak, desperate, lost.

“I’m so close, baby,” I growl against her soaked cunt. “Just a few more seconds.”

This is rough. Too rough for her first time.

But I can’t stop.

Her toes curl in. Her back arches high off the bed as I thrust my fingers deeper, curling them to hit that spot.

I suck her clit hard.

And she shatters.

A scream rips from her throat as she comes apart again on my tongue, her orgasm flooding my mouth. Salty heaven.

I groan, my body jerking as pleasure shoots through me.

Fuck—

I come in my fucking trousers.

My jaw tightens as I swallow every drop of her, my cock still painfully hard.

“I need to feel my dick inside your cunt, solnyshka,” I rasp, my voice wrecked. Her taste coats my tongue, drips down my throat.

“Tell me to stop now, and I will…”

A loud noise rings through the air.

And just like that—

The spell breaks.

It rings again.

Natasha freezes.

For a second—just one—she doesn’t recoil.

I feel it.

The way her breath hitches, the way her fingers tremble at her sides, curling inward like she is fighting an instinct she cannot name. Like some part of her still wants to reach for me.

Then it breaks.

A sharp inhale. A full-body jolt. Revulsion drowning out whatever had made her hesitate.

She shoves me away, hard enough that I have to catch myself. The space between us an instant—a chasm carved in an instant, but I felt it like a blade to the ribs.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck was that?” I snap, irritation burning through every vein in my body. My trousers are damp with my release, my cock still half-hard, still aching.

“Get out,” she whispers, voice raw.

Not a plea. A warning.

The words drip in pure, undiluted disgust.

Regret.

She regrets this. Regrets us.

My pulse hastens, thick and heavy. I should have smirked. Should have thrown something cutting at her, watch her disgust sharpen into anger. Anger I know how to handle.

But I don’t.

Because she is already looking at me like I was something vile. Like I’m the filth she wants to scrape off her skin.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I feel something close to regret.

Not for what I had done.

But for the way she looks at me now.

I shove it down before it can settle.

And then—**just like that—**the walls I had let crack, slam back into place.

This was nothing.

A game. A mistake.

Fucking pretend.

The sun rises, spilling its light over the shore. I grab my phone as it rings again and storm out of her room.

Out of my own fucking room.

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