Page 67 of Torn By Fate

But she didn’t know that.

How could she?

All Serafina knew was that she married a dangerous man. Ruthless. Deadly. Merciless. To her, there was nothing different between me and the man who had tried to kill her.

“Serafina.” I waited until her eyes opened. They were glassy and unfocused, the pupils still dilated from earlier panic. “If it helps you sleep,” I said slowly, choosing each word carefully, “if it helps you feel safe, I will tie myself.”

Her brow furrowed, her eyes hazy with confusion.

“I’ll use my belt. I’ll tie my hands to the bed frame. I won’t be able to reach you.” She stared at me quietly. I swallowed and continued, “But I’ll stay beside you. You can sleep, knowing that I’m here, but I won’t be able to touch you. Not unless you want me to. Not unless you untie me.”

I had spent my entire life maintaining control over my body, my emotions, over every situation I found myself in. Control was survival. Control was power.

And I was offering to surrender it completely, to put my freedom in her hands, to let her decide whether I could do something as simple as use my hands or not.

Fuck me, this woman had taken every ounce of control from me.

I was sincerely, irrevocably fucked.

Somewhere between the hate and vengeance became a reckless obsession.

And with that obsession came destruction.

We were both damned.

I watched her process the offer, her gaze dropping to my hands before going to the belt at my waist, then back to my face. She was calculating my words, my honesty.

“You would do that,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a flat, toneless statement.

I nodded once. “Yes.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Because you feel guilty.”

“Because you need to feel safe,” I rasped, wanting her to believe me.

Her jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the bruise on her cheek, and for a moment I thought she might refuse.

Instead, she released my shirt, her fingers uncurling slowly.

She turned her head on the pillow, facing the wall, and closed her eyes. “Do it.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SERAFINA

The hotel suite had become its own kind of prison. A prison for my own safety. It almost felt like I was a captive again, like I had been when we first married.

Though this time, the circumstances were completely different.

The bruises on my cheeks had deepened since that night, shifting through the ugly violent purple to yellow to a sickly green along the edges, the center still dark and tender.

My throat bore the faint imprint of fingers I would carry for weeks, a necklace of bruises that ached every time I swallowed.

The swelling had gone down enough that I could speak without it sounding like I was gargling glass, but the words still hurt to speak against the damaged tissue.

The suite was large enough that two people could occupy it without tripping over each other, but Adrian had made no effort to give me space. He was everywhere—in the armchair by the window, on the couch across from the bed, standing at the kitchenette making herbal tea he knew I wouldn’t drink.

He moved through the room with quiet authority, taking up space without demanding it, but his presence was inescapable nonetheless.