Page 66 of Torn By Fate

“Don’t.” Her voice was muffled in between each broken gasp. “Don’t touch me. Please don’t.”

She resisted for exactly one shattering heartbeat, her body going rigid, her hands coming up to push against my chest. Her broken nails scraped against my shirt, a desperate, feeble attempt to create space between us.

And then her tiny fist struck my chest.

I let her hit me.

I absorbed every blow, every desperate, futile strike, and held her closer, bringing our bodies together until there wasn’t any breathing space between us.

And then I kissed her.

Not like any other kisses before.

This was different.

I pressed my mouth against hers gently, my lips moving with a tenderness that felt foreign to my body, a language I had never spoken before.

She tried to turn her head. I cupped her jaw with one hand, holding her face to mine, and kissed her again. Warm and firm. Deliberately.

My thumb traced the line of her cheekbone, careful to avoid the bruise, and I felt the moment something in her gave way.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I breathed against her lips. “I’ve got you, Princess.”

I kissed her through the tears.

I kissed her through the panic.

I kissed her until her fingers gripped the front of my shirt, not to push me away, but instead, to keep me anchored against her body. To hold me, silently pleading with me not to let go.

My lips remained on hers until the sobs slowed. Until the shaking subsided. Until the only sound in the room was the soft, hitching rhythm of her breathing and the steady thud of my heart beneath her palm.

Her knees buckled.

I felt it before it happened, her weight shifting, the sudden absence of tension in her legs, and I caught her. I lifted her in my arms and cradled her against my chest, carrying her to the bed.

I laid her down carefully and pulled the soft duvet over her body. Her fist remained clenched in my shirt, her knuckles white, and I didn’t try to pry her fingers loose. Her eyes were closed. The tears had stopped, but the tracks they’d left were still wet on her skin, glistening in the dim light.

I sat on the edge of the mattress. “Do you want me to stay?” I asked.

Serafina didn’t have to speak; her body answered before her mouth could. It was a subtle tightening in her muscles. She didn’t pull away from me, but she didn’t relax either. The tension remained.

I looked down at her hand on my chest.

She was holding onto me now because she had nothing else to hold onto, because I was the only option left. The thought tasted bitter on my tongue.

My wife would never willingly choose me, not now, maybe not ever. But the circumstances had forced her into needing the one man she loathed.

“Are you scared of me, Princess?” I asked. The question came out quieter than I intended, stripped of the arrogance I usually heard in my own words. “Do you think I will hurt you?”

Her eyes remained closed, her lashes dark and wet against her cheeks, but I felt the subtle shift in her breathing as she considered my words.

My mind went back to the man on the carpet. The way his bloodied face had broken under my fists.

I killed without hesitation. Without remorse. Without the slightest flicker of humanity men like me pretended we had.

Violence has never frightened me.

But the thought of turning that violence on her—of laying a single finger on her in anger, of causing her pain the way that man had caused—my insides recoiled violently, almost instinctively against the mere thought.