The bloodied bra from the night before haunted the edges of Elena’s mind like a fresh wound that refused to clot. Damien had burned it in the fireplace without explanation, the lace curling black and acrid as the flames devoured it, but the image lingered—crimson soaked into delicate fabric, a promise of violence yet to come. He’d said nothing more about it, only pulled her naked body against his in the massive four-poster bed and fucked her again at dawn: slow, deep, almost reverent at first, then brutal. He’d pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other wrapped around her throat, squeezing until black spots danced in her vision while his thick cock dragged in and out of her swollen, cum-slick pussy. She’d come so hard she’d pissed a little—hot, shameful spurts around his shaft—and he’d groaned like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever felt, pumping deeper until he flooded her again.