Page 59 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
She threw me a lifeline, and gratitude for the cold Russian swells in my chest. They’re rooting for me. Their motivations may be selfish, but they are invested in my success. I suddenly don’t feel so alone.
Now I simply have to smile and nod, get through this farce of a party, and then Enrique Bianchi is going to find out exactly what he bought with my father’s blood. This Ricci bride is more than he bargained for.
The party is at the house with a huge marquee erected in the garden. No expense has been spared. Of course, for Enrique, it’s a show of power and wealth. I watch as he drinks champagne and then whiskey. One glass then another and another. It’s a good thing because it’ll make him more vulnerable when he finally falls asleep. However, as the night rolls on, I grow more anxious. Enrique is not a nice man, but I’ve witnessed firsthand how cruel he is when drunk. It’s a double-edged sword.
And then comes the moment when he stumbles over to me. I tense as his hand glides over my waist, and his lips sloppily hit my neck. A few of his men cheer and wolf whistle.
“Come on.” He takes my hand and drags me from the marquee.
I block out the lude sounds from the crowd. As he pulls me through the house and up the stairs, my pulse rises. I’ve planned for this, and yet, now that I’m here, I feel sick. I want to turn and run, but I can’t. I’ve come too far.
He leads me into a bedroom and closes the door before he walks away, sliding his jacket over his shoulders. Black sheets cover a king-sized bed that sits in the middle of the huge room, taunting me. It might as well be a torture device because that bed terrifies me. I remain where I am, my back pressed to the door. My hands tremble, and I snap my fingers around my wrist in an attempt to still them.
He takes off his waistcoat. Cufflinks, tie, shoes—all removed so casually before he finally turns to face me.
“Is my wife going to come willingly?” he asks, though a smirk plays over his lips, and I have a feeling he’d prefer that I wasn’t willing.
This is it—the final scene in this act. My ultimate sacrifice before the thrilling encore. This is the culmination of everything, right here. So close. I just have to take this final step and fuck Enrique Bianchi. On a shaky breath, I step forward. My legs feel like jelly, and my ankles threaten to give way on the high heels, so I kick them off. When I’m only a few feet in front of him, he moves, and one step is all it takes for me to know how this is going to go. His body bristles with aggression, and it’s aimed at me. His hands span my waist, and he launches me onto the bed. I barely have a chance to gather myself before he grips my hips and flips me onto my front. My heart is galloping in my chest and fear embeds into every fiber of my being. I thought I could do this, but now that it’s happening, I’m paralyzed. Material shreds as he wrenches the intricate lace at my back apart. He makes no attempt to strip me, simply shoves aside the layers of skirts and tears off my underwear. No, no, no. I can’t think. Survival instincts trickle back in, and I try to get away, pushing up. I turn, attempting to elbow him.
He laughs. “There she is. For a moment there, I thought you were going to be a boring fuck.” His hand lands on the back of my neck, his entire weight pressing down on me. My air cuts off, and I panic. And it’s then, when I’m at my most vulnerable, that he shoves himself inside me on a groan.
“I don’t want you willing, principessa. I want to ruin you,” he grunts, thrusting into me so hard that all I feel is pain. “Because I can still see that defiance in your eyes. You want to escape, but you never will. You’re mine now.” He bites my earlobe, and tears sting my eyes.
It’s like my very soul is withering and dying. Crippling defeat washes over me, and tears silently track down my cheeks. I stop fighting.
“Maybe I’ll put a baby in you. You’ll be my prize broodmare.” He laughs. Thrust, thrust, thrust. As he takes his pleasure, the pressure on my neck never ceases.
My head swims, and unconsciousness blurs the corners of my mind. I picture myself slicing open Enrique’s throat, that smug smile leaving him as blood pours down his skin. And then blackness engulfs me, and I’m grateful for it.
When I wake, the room is dark and quiet except for the distant hum of the party in the background, and it disorientates me. Cool air meets the exposed skin of my legs and ass, and a deep ache radiates between my thighs. The cooling evidence of his pleasure coats my skin, disgusting me. Maybe I’ll put a baby in you. The thought makes me sick. Thank God for the implant in my arm. I’d rather die than spawn his child. As I pull myself together, I finally become aware of Enrique’s sleeping form barely a foot away from me.
