Chapter 19 I should move, I want to move, but my limbs are limp. Jelly. I'm locked in place by the echo of that sound. Then he moves, fast, out of bed in a blur. One finger pointed at me like a warning shot. His eyes burn. "You stay right there, Zoya. You hear me? I'm not fucking around." His voice isn't the lover's voice I know, the one that rasps into my skin, the one that begs and whispers and curses when he's inside me. No, this is the commander. This is the man people fear. The man they whisper about when they think he isn't listening. But I don't fear him. I never have. Because I know exactly what he is. What he'll do to protect me. I swallow hard and nod. My throat is dry, but my voice is steady. "I know how to use a gun," I say. "You fucking heard me," he barks. "Stay there!" He's never raised his voice at me, not like this. I stare, wide-eyed. I've never seen him like this. Controlled. Fierce. Terrifying in his love. "Yes, sir," I whisper. And then pulls on boxers like it's nothing. I don't even know how he moves so fast. A beat later, he's yanking open the drawer beside the bed, pulling out the biggest fucking gun I've ever seen, and I know guns. Thanks to my brothers, thanks to Rafail Kopolov, I've seen an arsenal. A semi-automatic. Sleek. Merciless. He loads it, cocks it, then cradles it like an extension of his own arm. Then he's out, moving fast, and locks the door behind him. One click, two clicks, three. Then I hear it, a mechanical hum. Bars slam down over the windows. He's locked me behind a goddamn fortress. And now I'm wide awake. I sit straight up in bed. My heart is racing, every nerve screaming. The adrenaline surges so fast I feel like I might throw up. I pull the blankets up to cover my body, like I can hide from whatever's coming. Who's out there? Has my family come to claim me? Has his? Or worse, an enemy? Then I hear him. His voice, sharp as a blade. "Who the fuck's there?" The front door groans open. Another loud noise. A voice, rough, distant. Then silence. Nothing else. It's killing me. Is he okay? I glance around the room and see the drawer. I need something. I need to be ready. There. He left me a weapon, a gesture that says everything without saying it. Trust. Preparation. Protection. I reach for it and check it. It's loaded, and the safety's off. This one isn't for warnings; this is meant to kill. I know what it does. I've seen what these bullets do to a man. They tear through flesh and twist organs into pulp. I hold it steady. My hands might be small, but thanks to Rafail, I know exactly what the fuck I'm doing. I wait. Minutes crawl by. More voices. Another minute. Still, nothing. His cum is still leaking from me, slick between my thighs and soaking the sheets beneath me. My breasts are red, marked by him. Every touch still lingers. The way he took me, there was no doubt. No question. He does love me. He proved it. Every inch of him. Every kiss. Every growl and every gentle press. I have to trust him now. My sweet, wild man. My beautiful, broken monster. He has to be okay. I clutch the gun tighter. He told me to stay. To wait. And I want to. God, I want to. But what if... what if he's hurt? What if that... no. I can't go there. But what if someone has him, and I'm just sitting here with a weapon in hand, doing nothing? I run to the window. Sunlight slices through the bars. There's nothing but trees, nothing I can see. I'm not sure I could get out, even if I wanted to. And I start to think about disobeying him. I don't really fear punishment, but god, I don't want him upset with me. But I don't know what he'd do if I did disobey him. And honestly? I don't want to know. I like pleasing him. I need to please him. That furrow between his brows when he's worried, it fucking wrecks me. I'd do anything to smooth it away. I want him. I need him. But if someone's got him... And then, I hear it. Voices again. One of them is his. My breath whooshes out, and relief slams through me so hard I nearly drop the gun. I press my forehead against the cool wall and let myself feel it. He's okay. He's alive. I throw on one of his shirts and a pair of panties, just in time. Footsteps echo outside the door. He opens the door. Then he sees me by the window, dressed, with a gun gripped in both hands. He holds up a palm.. "Easy, lass. Lower the gun. There's no threat. Not now. Put it down, Zoya." I nod and gently lay the gun on his armoire. "All right, now, lass." I walk over to him, tentative, trying to peer over his shoulder, but he's too damn big. "I was scared for you," I whisper, tears pricking at my eyes. He takes up the entire doorway, a broad wall of protection, so I can't see anybody behind him. "It's all right," he says, though his voice doesn't match the words. There's something in his eyes, clouded and troubled, like a storm barely held back. "It's all right. For now," he amends. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It's my mate." He walks toward me, his muscles tense, voice edged in warning as he growls over his shoulder, "Stay back. My wife's not dressed. You'll not see her like this." Then louder, harsher, "Stay the fuck back, or I'll blow your fucking bollocks to bits." "Easy, McCarthy. Jesus," comes another voice. It's rough, a little higher pitched than Seamus's. "Let's get you dressed," Seamus says, like it's a casual thing, but I can hear it in his tone-if he could wrap me up from head to toe, hide every inch of me, he would. Funny thing is, he's hardly dressed himself. I shoot him a glance. "You're walking around in boxers," I tell him. "Zoya," he says, his words thick with warning, like he's dragging my name across coals. And even now... even with all that tension humming through the air, it makes my heartbeat race. I like it when he gets like that with me, stern, possessive. Makes me feel small. Protected. Desired. I grab a pair of leggings and slide into them. I glance at him. He's watching me, eyes narrowing like he's trying to figure out if I'm wearing a bra. My breasts are too small for that to matter. "Nobody's going to see me," I mutter, grabbing my sweatshirt. "Take my sweatshirt," he says firmly, as he pulls on a pair of jeans. I open my mouth to sass him, maybe say something snarky about him walking around half naked, too, but I shut it just as fast. Probably not the time. "Good girl," he murmurs, and damn, I like the way he rolls the Rs. "Come meet my best mate." I follow him into the living room. Seated at the table is a large man with light-brown hair that curls at the ends, his brown eyes dancing with something unreadable. He's built like Seamus, broad and imposing. He wears a faded tank top and worn jeans. Muscular arms, tattooed sleeves. Tough, but there's something warm in the way he looks at me. "My cousin, Colm," Seamus says. "Colm." He lifts his chin a bit when he says it, pride in the word. "My wife, Zoya." "Very pleased to meet you, Zoya," Colm says, giving me a respectful nod. "Pleased to meet you too," I reply softly. "I was just about to make Seamus some breakfast. Are you hungry?" I ask, still standing. "Zoya. Sit." Seamus barks the order, and I sit without thinking, hands folded in my lap. Colm's eyes sparkle, like he knows exactly who Seamus is and what I'm learning about him too. Apparently, he knows Seamus's ways well. Seamus rests his larger hand atop mine. "I know, beautiful. And I promise, I'll give you another chance. But for now, I want you to sit." His voice is low, protective, not patronizing. He's not treating me like a child. He's shielding me. There's a difference. "Now, angel," Seamus says, "Colm's come to tell me what's going on." "I think if it weren't for you, ma'am, your father would've stormed the damn castle already," Colm adds, half-joking, half-serious. Seamus lets out a breath, then turns to me. "Me mom has a way of gentling me dad like no one else could. At least a little." "I think your dad suspects something's up," Colm says. "But you've got a lot of explaining to do, don't you?" "No," Seamus says, quiet but final. "I've got very little explaining to do to anybody. What I have a lot of is work." He turns to me, his steady gaze locking on mine. "I won't apologize for taking Zoya. She's mine. She belongs to me. There is none other." Colm smiles and nods once. "Okay." That's so very him. So very Seamus. "My plan is to stay here with my wife as long as I can," Seamus says, with calm determination. "And when it's time... when it's time for me to go, I will. I reckon we've got at least one more night." Colm winces. "I think your mom probably talked your dad into that, eh? Branson's gone for now." "Fuck Branson," Seamus growls. God. I remember the story he told me about the king and his trusted advisor, the one who tried to usurp the throne. I know exactly who Branson is. Colm holds Seamus's gaze without flinching. "It's time," he says. Seamus doesn't blink, but something inside him gives, something quiet and worn thin. That weight, the fatigue of it, slides into his features. "I figured," he answers. There's no fight in it, but there's no surrender either. Just inevitability. Colm's eyes flick to me again, sharp and cold, but not unkind. He's measuring me, calculating, adding up the cost of who I am and what I've already changed. "They know," Colm says. "Or they will. You made it clear when you took her." "Aye," Seamus replies. No apology in it. Just fact. "Then get ahead of it, Seamus. Show your face before they start knocking down doors. You know how this works." His voice shifts, deeper now, more serious, like the gravity just increased in the room. "You know your father. And you'll lose whatever grace you've got left if you don't move now." Seamus doesn't speak right away. His jaw locks tight, that familiar twitch in his cheek giving him away. He stares at Colm like he's not sure whether to thank him or break something. Then, finally, he gives a single nod. "Tomorrow, we'll go." My heart stutters. Tomorrow. It's not just a looming possibility anymore, but a promise. A plan. We're leaving this little pocket of stolen peace. Walking straight into the fire, into the center of all the fury and judgment waiting for us. What we'll find on the other side, I can't even guess. Separation, maybe. Or worse. Colm exhales, and there's something gentler in him now. He turns to me with a nod. "Pleased to meet you, love," he says, and there's a softness in it I didn't expect. Then he's gone, turning on his heel and slipping out the door without another word. The lock clicks behind him, and Seamus is already moving, bolting it. He presses his forehead to the frame, his breath shaky and low. "Fuck," he mutters. I wait... letting the silence bloom around us. When he finally turns back to me, that same weariness clouds his eyes, but they're still alive. Still burning for me, even when everything else in him looks like it's cracking. "Come here, angel," he murmurs tenderly. So I go. I step into his arms like I've always belonged there. He wraps them around me, and I press my face to his chest. I fit perfectly. Like we were carved for this, made for each other in a world that wants us apart. "Listen, Seamus," I whisper. "We're going to survive this, aren't we?" "Of course we are," he says immediately, like the idea of failure isn't even a possibility. That fire I've come to trust flares in his voice. "Then let's get it over with. We know what we need to do." He pulls back just enough to see me. His gaze digs in, searching, wanting more than just agreement; he's looking for belief. He lifts his hand and brushes a knuckle under my chin, so soft it aches. "Tell me," he says. "Tell me what you think we should do." There's something raw in him now, unguarded. As if this moment, this invitation to be his equal, costs more than blood. Like letting me carry even a fraction of his burden is the most intimate thing he's ever done. And I feel it. God, I feel it. I swallow, my eyes locked to his. "We need to have a baby." His eyes widen like I just set a star in his hands. Shock cracks through him but not fear. No, it's something gentler. Hope, maybe. Wonder. "We do, don't we?" he says, his voice barely above a breath. I nod. "Even your father... even my brother. They won't be able to argue with that. If we join our families⁠-" "Right," he cuts in, the spark catching hold. "I know it. A baby," he repeats, like he's still trying the word on. "I never thought I'd want one. Never been one for babies... But with you, darlin'..." He trails off, shaking his head like he can't believe where his own heart has led him. "Yes," I say quietly. "A baby. I know it won't fix everything. I know what we're about to face. It's going to be dangerous. Brutal." I run my thumb along the line of his jaw, feeling the coarse heat of his stubble, the warmth of him. He catches my hand, presses a kiss to my thumb, and then sets both hands on my hips, grounding himself in me. "We do," he agrees. "My family's wrath. Branson. And whatever your brother decides." "My family," I say. "I'm stalling. As long as they think I'm safe... they won't strike. Not yet." He nods slowly. "I know you believe that." "But you don't." "I can't." And I get that. He's not wired for faith, not when all he's ever known is betrayal and survival. Hope isn't a luxury he trusts. Thunder crashes above us, so loud and sudden, it jerks me back into my body. I flinch. He chuckles deeply and pulls me tighter. "Just thunder, baby," he murmurs into my hair. "I know," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, lightning splits the sky again, so close it feels like it might tear the roof off. "It just seems... close." "It is close," he murmurs, his gaze sweeping the windowpane. Outside, the sky has darkened, thick storm clouds blotting out the light. Then comes the rain, sharp, sudden, relentless. It lashes against the glass like it's trying to claw its way in. "Good," he says, more to himself than to me, as if he's pleased. "We might lose power. But it'll buy us time." Then he turns, his eyes catching the soft lamplight, and there's that glint again. That crooked, wicked gleam that lives in his smile like a secret only I know. The devil incarnate, grinning just for me. "My father's men don't like the rain." "Good," I echo, mirroring his grin with one of my own. It's slower, warmer, a touch more dangerous. "Gives us a little time together." "Aye," he rumbles, leaning in close, brushing his lips right against my cheek in a gesture that's more possessive than tender. "A little time to make that baby." A flush blooms low and heavy in my belly, heat spreading like honey on hot skin, thick and unhurried. I match his grin without hesitation. "Aye," I whisper back, letting the word roll from my tongue just like I know he loves it, soft and Irish and laced with something more than just affection. He chuckles, a gravelly sound that stirs something primal in my chest. "But first," he says, stepping back just enough to flash me a look. "Let's eat. I'm famished. Let me cook for you this time," he offers, a little too eager, like he's trying to prove something. There's affection behind the offer, sure, but also mischief. I try, god, I try, not to grimace. But my face betrays me, and he sees it, clear as day. He throws his head back and laughs. A real one, deep, rich, and unfiltered. It fills the room and warms the air. "Come on now. You can teach me, can't you? Just rest a bit, love. I can handle pasta. Who can fuck up pasta?" "Who indeed?" I mutter under my breath, smirking. I swat his ass as he turns toward the kitchen, and he yelps, grinning like a lunatic. He pulls out a box of pasta, some off-brand thing I've never seen before, chucks it in a pot, and sets it to boil. Five minutes later, it's chaos. Somehow, he burns it. I don't even know how. One minute, the water's simmering like it should be, and the next, the fire alarm is wailing. And right in the middle of the madness, he grabs me and kisses me like the world's ending, and our food isn't ruined. I double over laughing, uncontrollably, nearly wheezing. I almost pee myself from how baffled he looks, standing there with a wooden spoon like it's betrayed him. "What the hell did I do wrong?" he says, dragging a hand through his hair. "You let yourself get distracted by your new wife." I giggle, still catching my breath. He groans like a man suffering in silence. "Fine. We'll come to an agreement. You cook, I clean, for all the meals, eh?" "I like that deal," I say, my lips curling into something sly. He pops open a bottle of red, something dark and probably expensive, and pours us each a glass. I rummage through his cabinets, find some meat in the fridge, a can of tomatoes, and a head of garlic that looks half alive. The basics. A few minutes later, the kitchen is thick with the smell of onions sautéing in butter, the beef browning in a swirl of herbs and cracked pepper. "Simple food's the best food," I tell him, stirring the sauce. "It is," he agrees, watching me like I've conjured some form of edible magic. I find a crusty loaf of bread in the fridge, smear it with garlic and butter, sprinkle it with herbs, and toss it under the broiler until it's golden, crisp, and perfect. "This looks incredible," he says, his eyes wide and reverent. "Forget having kids. Maybe you should just cook for me, love." I laugh, but there's something under it, something smaller and quieter that doesn't quite go away. "I've heard stories about Keenan McCarthy," I say softly, not looking at him. "I hope what you said is true, that your mother can soften him." "My da's not a bad sort, Zoya," he says, setting his fork down. "We've talked about this, aye? His issue with me... It's because he listens to his best mate's advice." "Why would he do that?" I ask, frustration creeping into my voice. "You seem reliable." "I am reliable. But not manipulative. And his friend is. There's a difference." "It makes sense," I murmur. "I'm glad Rafail's never had to deal with anything like that." "My father's old now. Tired. He's ruled the family for a long time. But when his friend promised him a kingdom, he took the bait." "I know it," I say, and I do. I feel it, how old men still dream of crowns, even when their hands are shaking. He eats with focus, like he's thinking between every bite. But when we talk, he's fully present. He sets his utensils down. He gestures, expressive, telling me stories of his youth, of Belfast summers and family dinners. Of loyalty and loss. I tell him mine in return, pieces I've never given anyone else. We fit, somehow. "We're oddly suited for each other, aren't we?" he says with a wistful kind of grin. "Definitely," I say. "Now, all that's left is convincing our families to see it too." "I wouldn't say it's our only problem," he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "But it's definitely the biggest, isn't it?" "I don't know," I say, rising from the table and sweeping the dishes into my arms. I don't meet his eyes, not yet. I walk to the sink, and the sound of plates clinking against stainless steel fills the silence between us. Then, without thinking, my mouth curls into a smirk, sharp and teasing. I glance over my shoulder, just enough to catch him watching. "I think our biggest problem might be that my husband thinks he can cook." I don't even finish the sentence before he's on me. His arms wrap around my waist, warm and impossibly solid. I burst into laughter, wild, breathless, uncontained, as he pins me between his body and the counter. His hands find my sides, relentless, tickling until I'm writhing and gasping for air. And then he kisses me, right at the curve of my neck, where his beard scrapes and burns in all the right ways. I swear I feel him breathe me in, like I'm something vital. Like I'm the only air he needs. "You're a firecracker," he mutters against my skin, his voice frayed with want. "Leave the damn dishes," he says next, and there's heat behind it. "I think the real problem is my wife still hasn't learned how to obey me." An involuntary breath catches in my throat. My body hums with it. "Okay," I whisper. I don't know if that's what he wants to hear, or if he's just going to toy with me more and draw it out like he always does. "Is that the right thing to say?" he murmurs, one hand drifting lower, fingers sinking in and squeezing my ass like it belongs to him. "Yes, sir." He lifts me like I weigh nothing, turns me, and sets me down on the counter. The granite is cool under my thighs, but he's blazing. He leans in, forehead to mine, and his voice, god, I love his voice. "Say it again, Zoya." "Seamus," I breathe out, more of a whimper than a name. But that's not what he asked for. That's not what he wants. "Yes, sir," I whisper, this time with more certainty. My eyelids flutter shut as his mouth captures mine. Then my cheek. The softest parts of me. He kisses me like a man starved, like he's memorizing the shape of me with every press of his lips. Worshipping me, like I'm something rare and sacred. "One night left," he says, quiet but resolute, like a vow wrapped in steel. "Let's make it count. Let's do everything we can to bring our families together." He kisses me like time isn't running out. Like we're not on the brink of something terrible. Like this isn't the eve of war and we aren't teetering at the edge of a cliff, one step away from plummeting to our deaths. Our lives, mine and his, are balanced on the edge of a blade. And yet, when he speaks to me, it's reverent, as if I'm his sanctuary in a world set on fire. His mouth drifts lower, to my shoulder. The top of my breast. My nipple. My belly. Every kiss is a benediction. I answer only with trembling fingers, clutching his shirt, and breath that breaks from me in shuddering bursts. "Go to bed, darling," he says, his voice darker now, thick with that same authority that makes my knees weak. "I want you to edge yourself. Slide your fingers between your thighs. But don't come. Not until I get there." "But I'm cleaning the kitchen," I try, my protest soft, uncertain. I like pushing just a little. He leans in, his voice like smoke curling around my ear. "That's not your job anymore, and you know it." I nod, swallowing hard. "Yes, sir." "And if you make yourself come before I get there, Zoya..." His voice drops even lower. It's dark, sinful... full of promises I'm half-certain I want him to keep. "I'll take my belt to your arse before I fuck you." The words sear into me. Brand me. Heat flashes up my spine like a live wire. I've never been spanked with a belt. But the way he says it, possessive, certain, commanding, makes my body tense with the urge to disobey. Just to know what it feels like. "Yes, sir," I whisper, and I mean it. So I do exactly what he said. I go to the bedroom, take off my clothes, and lie back on the bed, sheets cool beneath me and my skin already flushed with need. I'm naked, aching, my nerves strung tight. I slip a hand between my thighs and gasp. I'm soaked. Slick. Swollen. Starving. I think of him. His hands. His voice. His weight pinning me down. His belt. I'm closer, chasing the edge, until I'm right there, right on the precipice. Do I want to fall? Do I want to tempt him, tempt that punishment? Taste the wrath he promised? No. Not yet. Where is he? Seamuuus... I pull my hand away, and my body trembles. Every nerve is on fire, desperate. I lie there, straining to hear. A dish clinks. Water runs. His voice floats in from the kitchen. My heart leaps, but it's just a phone call. Frustrated, I roll onto my side. I touch myself again, fingers slipping into a rhythm fast, deep, and devastating. My other hand grips my breast, pinching, tugging, trying to hold on. I think about the belt. The weight of it. The leather. The crack of it against skin. And just like that, I fall. I come hard. Too hard. My body jerks, wracked with wave after wave that refuses to stop. I try. I swear I try to stop. But I can't. And then I see him. He's standing in the doorway. His arms are crossed, his eyes dark, unreadable, but dangerous. "You didn't," he growls. "I..." I start, but the words die in my throat. "Tell me you didn't disobey me and make yourself come." The hard line of his cock in his jeans tells me he might want me to admit my failing. "Um, I didn't mean to," I whisper, like it'll make a difference. Like maybe if we both lost control, it balances out. But it doesn't. "It just happened, Seamus. I swear, I didn't mean to make that happen." "But you did," he growls, stepping forward. "You had control. I told you what to do. I told you not to come. And you chose to come anyway." He stalks across the room, and suddenly, he's not just Seamus anymore. He's The Undertaker. The man who makes grown men piss themselves. The most feared man in Europe. And now I see why. I scramble back on the bed, more out of instinct than real fear. Because underneath the terror, I want this. I want him. Because this is Seamus. My Seamus. He wouldn't really hurt me. Would he? "Let me ask you something, angel," he says. The way the word angel slips from his lips, it should sound sweet. Soft, like affection. But it doesn't. There's a steel thread running through it, laced with warning. It tells me not to get too comfortable. Not to mistake tenderness for mercy. "Am I a man of my word?" He told me he'd marry me. Swore he'd come back for me. Promised that the only reason he ever left at all was because someone else took him, ripped him away, and locked him up, like I didn't matter. Like we didn't matter. There was a time I would've said no... that he wasn't a man of anything. But now? Now, I know better. "Yes, sir," I whisper. The words barely leave my lips, like they're afraid to make themself known. Saying the truth out loud feels like it might cost me something I won't be able to get back. He watches me. "What did I tell you would happen if you came without permission?" My mouth is dry. "You said you'd spank me," I murmur, looking down, wishing I hadn't come here. Wishing I had. Wanting everything and nothing all at once. "In detail, Zoya. That's not what I said." Oh god. "You said you'd take your belt to my ass," I whisper, my face burning. The shame rolls through me like a wave of fire, but underneath it, something else pulses-hotter and more dangerous. It's humiliating. It's terrifying. It's arousing. He's so massive. So dominant. Every movement is careful, calculated. There's no hesitation in him, no second-guessing. He doesn't bluff. He executes. "I did, didn't I?" His voice is soft now, almost amused. "And it seems like my new wife needs to learn how to obey her husband." He's in jeans and a tight white T-shirt, and the fabric clings to his chest and arms like it was made to showcase how lethal he is. He reaches down, unbuckles the belt at his waist, and slides it free with a long, slow pull that makes my stomach drop. The sound is loud. Final. Like a door slamming shut. Rain pours outside. It's warm in here, though, and I'm on fire. He shakes his head once, deliberately, then stomps toward me. "Hands above your head, where I can see them." I obey without thinking. My arms fly up. I'm trembling. Every instinct in me is screaming run, but every nerve is screaming stay. "Good," he says. But he doesn't say good girl. And that, god, it hurts. Like a phantom limb, like I've been denied something vital. I ache for it. I crave him telling me I'm his good girl. His gaze stays locked on mine. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but there's something behind them. Something dangerous. Something certain. He loops the belt in his hands and snaps it once with a flick of his wrist. The sound cracks through the room. I flinch. He walks to the bed and sits down slow, spreading his legs wide. He looks completely relaxed, like this is routine for him. Like punishing me is just another part of loving me. He pats his lap. "Anytime I have to punish you, it'll be over my lap," he says calmly. Like this isn't a negotiation, it's doctrine. "If you're not being punished, I'll use my hand. If you are... something else." Oh god. He's thought this through. He has a plan he's ready to execute. "Okay," I whisper. The word is barely there. He points. "Now. Over." My legs feel like liquid, but I obey. Trembling, I move forward and slide across his thighs. His lap is sturdy, warm, and immovable. My hair falls forward, curtain-like, hiding my face from the world. My hands scrabble for balance, but I can't find anything solid except for him. He places one firm, heavy hand on the small of my back. He lifts the belt. And brings it down. The leather strikes the crease between my thighs and the curve of my ass. The sound is loud, the sting sharp. I cry out, my breath caught in my throat. "Ow." It doesn't exactly hurt, not in the way pain is supposed to. It startles me more than anything. It steals my breath and leaves something else behind. Arousal. Electricity. "Good," he murmurs. Then he brings it down again. Two. Three. He flicks the leather strap across each cheek, a measured, controlled rhythm that feels more like a seduction than a strike. Each one lands with purpose, not violence, not punishment. Not yet. It's like he's drawing heat into me, teasing the edge of pain, coaxing my body to respond, to yield. He's not even using half his strength; I know that. He's playing with me. Testing my limits. Warming me up for something darker. Something I can't yet see, but I can feel it coming, like a storm on the horizon. "There," he says, after six deliberate lashes. He sets the belt down like it's something sacred, something he treasures, not just a tool, but a ritual. Then his hands, warm and possessive, cup my ass, his palms pressing firm against the sting, soothing and branding me all at once. "You're a good girl, Zoya." I sigh. There it is. His voice is almost too soft, deceptively gentle. It slides over my skin like silk, wrapping around me. "I don't think you need a severe punishment, do you?" But oh, something inside me wants it. Wants the punishment. Wants to earn it. Wants to see exactly how far he'll go. Wants to feel everything he's capable of giving. Still, I shake my head, my voice barely above a breath. "No, sir." I swallow. "I really didn't mean to disobey you. I'm sorry." The words come out quiet and broken, fragile like glass on tile. A tear slips down and hits the floor before I even know it's there. My chest tightens. "There," he says again, softer this time, smoothing his palm over me, again and again. Each pass is reassurance and claim, comfort and control. "That's a good girl." The way he says it... god, the way those words wash over me. Then his hand shifts and slides between my thighs, nudging them apart with the back of his fingers. A subtle command. His fingers find me wet, throbbing, and desperate, and he groans low, like the sound was pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. "Just as I thought," he murmurs, his voice thick now, heavy with knowing. "You're aroused again, aren't you?" I nod, almost ashamed by how badly I need him. The desire climbs through me like fire, licking every nerve and demanding more. It's shocking how fast it returns. How much harder it hits. I've never come more than once in a night, but with him? With Seamus? Everything is more. Every breath is sharper. Every part of me is lit up like he's flipped some hidden switch. I used to think about him when I touched myself in the dark. Sometimes I'd let myself come. Sometimes I'd stop at the edge, then fall asleep aching for him. He's pulled every string in me, tuned me to the brink of madness. "Good girl," he whispers reverently, like he's promising something only I get to hear. "There you go, baby. On your back. I want to taste you." "Seamus..." I'm already trembling, as he pinches the heat of my ass cheek, grounding me. "What do you call me?" His tone is sharper now. "Sir," I choke out, my pulse hammering. "Do you really plan on talking back to me just after I strapped you?" I gulp and move to obey. He moves with quiet purpose, going to the drawer. Metal cuffs gleam in his hands. When he snaps them around my wrists, they click into place, my arms stretched above my head. I'm held. I'm open. I'm his. "Oh god..." "Spread your legs." He kneels and settles between my thighs like he belongs there, and he does. Then his tongue drags slowly, maddeningly, over my clit. I cry out. My hips jerk, chasing the feeling, already trembling under the weight of his mouth. I didn't know it could feel like this. Didn't know I could want again so fast. Didn't know I could need this way. But I do. God, I do. He sucks. Licks. Flicks. Over and over. I rise from the bed, straining for him, moaning for him, aching. Then... he stops. A kiss to my thigh, maddening in its gentleness. "You'll stay like that," he says quietly. "Your punishment isn't over." Then he stands. "I need to do a few things." "Seamus," I gasp. "My god, you can't. Please... Seamus." "What's my name?" "Sir," I breathe out, wrecked. "Don't leave me like this. Please. I'm sorry, I promise I⁠-" "And I promise you," he cuts in coldly. "I'll let you come. You'll love it when I do. But you'll learn to obey me, Zoya. First, because I love it. Second, because it'll keep you alive." Then he walks away, leaving me cuffed, wet, exposed. Burning. I squeeze my thighs together, seeking relief, anything, but it's useless. The ache only grows. Even if I had the key, I wouldn't use it. I wouldn't move. I want to obey him. I want to please him. I want to be perfect for him. I want to be his good girl. God, I love when he calls me that. So I wait. I count. Ten. Fifty. Two hundred. Three hundred. The storm outside rages, rain slamming the glass, thunder shaking the sky, but inside, it's still warm. Still him. Still us. Then he appears in the doorway. "Still here, my love?" His voice sends a shiver through me. I nod. "Spread your legs again," he says, rough now, full of hunger. "Seamus, sir, please..." "That's what I like to hear," he growls. "I love to hear you beg." He drops to the floor again and licks me with purpose, his tongue flicking just where I crave it. I cry out, my hips lifting off the bed like I've been shocked. I want him. I need him. "Tell me you want me," he says, low and commanding, his lips brushing against my thigh like a brand. It's not a question, it's a demand. A dark, brutal need. "I want you," I whisper, broken open. "God, I want you so bad." He exhales, slow and heavy, like he's been holding his breath underwater. He reaches up, and his hand finds my throat, not choking, not tight, just resting. Possessive. A reminder. "You're mine," he growls. "This body. This mouth. This fucking sweetness between your legs. Mine." I nod frantically, my eyes wide, panting. "Yes, sir. I'm yours." "Say it again," he commands, his palm tightening slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me who's in control. "I'm yours," I say louder, trembling. "Every inch. Every part of me." "Good girl," he purrs. "Now you can come." He slides his tongue lazily over my clit. The permission crashes into me like a wave breaking against stone. I come undone. The orgasm tears through me, wild and punishing. It doesn't ask, it takes. My body bows against the restraints, my muscles seizing and my vision going white at the edges. He watches the whole thing, still worshipping me between my legs, like this moment belongs to him. It does. "Beautiful," he whispers, moving up and brushing a kiss over my temple. "So fucking beautiful when you break for me." "I want you. I want this. All of it, Seamus." I freeze. My breath catches in my throat, suspended like a thread stretched too tight. "No," he says softly, a low command wrapped in velvet. "Say it again. I want to hear my name again." "Seamus," I whisper, the word barely more than breath now, a sigh, a surrender. "That's it. Oh, good girl. You deserve a reward for that, don't you?" "Please, Seamus," I whisper again, need curling like smoke around my voice, pulling it taut. "If you touch me again, it's too much⁠-" "Trust me." He bends down, and his mouth is hot, dangerous, as his tongue flicks across my nipple again, teasing and tormenting until my hips rise of their own accord. My body is no longer mine. It's his. All his. I buck, begging without words, drowning in the ache. "Beg me," he orders, a gravelly threat laced with desire. "I want to hear you beg." "Please," I gasp. "Please let me. I need to, please, let me..." "Will you obey me?" "Yes," I cry, trembling under the weight of how badly I need him. "I promise. I'll be good. I'll be so good for you." Tears slip down my cheeks, hot, unrelenting. I'm undone, raw as he fingers me. I'm so close to the edge already. I've lost count of how many times I've come, but my body knows what to do now. "Seamus, please." "That's my girl," he murmurs, licking the other nipple with reverence that borders on worship. "That's my angel girl. I give you permission to come, love," he says, his lips brushing against the swell of my breast like a vow. "You have my permission." He suckles. He strokes my cheek with fingers that almost feel gentle. And then I shatter. Pleasure detonates through me, violent, blinding, a firestorm I couldn't stop even if I wanted to. Blood pounds in my ears. Nerves light up like fireworks, bright and merciless. I moan, my hips writhing, every part of me begging for more as he strokes my pussy, fingers my clit, plunges two fingers deep, curling them until they hit that perfect place, my G-spot, again and again, with ruthless precision. He licks and sucks and presses until I can't take it, until I dissolve into something boneless and breathless beneath him. And then he's kneeling above me. Watching. "I want you on your knees," he says, calm and controlled, as he unfastens the cuffs from my wrists. "I want to take you, love." I scramble to obey, eager and desperate, but he shakes his head slowly, the movement deliberate. "No," he murmurs. "I need to ease you into this, don't I? We need time. More time." Then he shifts, pressing the thick head of his cock against me, and I gasp. My arms wrap around his neck as he slides inside. This time, it doesn't hurt. This time, it's nothing but pleasure, pure, indulgent pleasure. He did this to me. He broke me open, made me come so hard I shattered, made me wet and swollen and ready for him. And now I take him easily. Willingly. He moves inside me, slow and careful, his control razor-sharp. His kisses are soft, almost reverent. He thrusts again, and I feel it, that he's holding back. He's not the kind of man who ever holds back, but right now, for me, he is. He's giving me care. Respect. Maybe even love. Again and again, he moves inside me, each thrust deeper, more deliberate. My pleasure builds slowly this time, a slow burn, a climb toward something inevitable. "I'm going to come again, sir," I whisper against his neck, trembling. "Call me by name now," he growls. "Seamus," I moan, my breath hitching. "Seamus, I'm going to, please." "Go on, Zoya," he whispers. "Come as many times as you want." Then he drives deep, and I splinter again, but this climax is different, less sharp, more consuming. Deeper. It fills me to the edges. I press my chest to his, moving with his thrusts, feeling the tremble in his body as he nears his own release. When he comes, his body jerks, and his forehead falls against mine. "God, this is so goddamn sweet." He groans. "God, I love you, Zoya." He pulls out slowly, carefully, his every movement tender. And then he's back, inside me again, but not just physically. Emotionally. Entirely. I'm so tired. My eyes flutter shut as he gently cleans me. Like I'm precious. Like I matter. My head finds its place on his shoulder, and my limbs go weightless, floating in the afterglow. I want him. God, I want him. I don't know what he's done to me. I close my eyes and drift toward what I hope is dreamless peace. A Fated Encounter movie summary talks about Emma Brown who is forced by her father Henry to take her sister Bella's place and marry Tommy Anderson to save her business. Unlike the rumor Tommy turns ou...