Unwilling Surrender

POV: Valerie Thorne.

The heavy oak door of the master bedroom swung open with a muffled thud, cutting through the stagnant midnight air of the colossal estate. A sudden cold draft spilled into the darkened room, carrying the distinct, earthy scent of ozone and petrichor from the relentless downpour outside. Tristan strode inside. He brought the storm in with him. His tailored dark shirt clung damply to his broad shoulders, ruined by the exterior rain, the expensive fabric molding to his rigid posture. He did not spare a single glance toward the massive king-sized bed where I lay awake in the shadows. He looked right through the space I occupied, as if I were nothing more than a ghost haunting his ancestral home.

Without uttering a word, his lengthy, purposeful strides carried him straight into the en-suite master bathroom. The metallic click of the latch echoed in the silence, followed shortly by the sound of high-pressure water rushing from the brass showerhead and slapping against the marble tiles.

Sleep was out of the question now. My heart kept an unsteady rhythm. I pushed the heavy, suffocating duvet off my chest and pulled myself up. The midnight chill kissed my bare shoulders, making me shiver through my thin cotton nightgown. I crossed the plush carpet, my bare feet sinking into the thick fibers, and walked into the expansive walk-in closet. I fetched a fresh pair of his favorite silk pajamas from the neatly organized mahogany shelves. Carrying the cool, smooth fabric in my hands, I walked back and draped it neatly across the foot of the bed, right where he would expect to find them.

Needing distance, I moved over to the balcony glass. I stood there, watching the relentless drizzle streak across the pane. The glass was freezing against my forehead. Down below in the courtyard, rain battered the stone pavement, washing away whatever tracks his car had left. My hand unconsciously came to rest against my lower abdomen. Beneath the skin, a delicate, fragile six-week-old life was fighting to form in the cold, hostile environment of my womb. The deep exhaustion of early pregnancy weighed down my bones, making my eyelids droop and my muscles ache with a dull, persistent throb.

The lock on the bathroom door clicked open. A thick cloud of warm steam rolled out from the well-lit bathroom, flooding into the cooler, darker bedroom air. Tristan stepped out. He was fresh from the shower, wearing nothing but a pristine white towel slung dangerously low across his narrow hips. Bright droplets of water traced the muscular contours of his chest, sliding down the hard ridges of his abs and disappearing into the terrycloth fabric. His damp black hair hung messy over his forehead. His obsidian gaze found me standing in the dark by the window. His eyes pinned me instantly, freezing the breath in my lungs.

"Come here."

His commanding voice rumbled through the quiet room, deep, gravelly, and brooking zero argument. My posture stiffened. I swallowed the thick knot of apprehension swelling in my throat and approached him. When I was just a few feet away, he carelessly tossed the damp towel he had used for his head straight at my chest. I rushed to catch it before it hit the carpet.

"Dry my hair."

I knew better than to resist his orders. Complying was the only way to keep the peace. As he sat down on the very edge of the mattress, the springs groaning faintly under his solid weight, I climbed up. Kneeling directly behind him on the edge of the mattress, I raised my tired arms. I placed the towel over his thick, damp black hair and began gently rubbing the dark strands. The coarse fabric absorbed the excess moisture. The scent of his mint and cedar body wash filled my nostrils. The silence stretching between us was suffocating. I could hear merely my own shallow breathing and the distant rumble of the storm outside.

"Grandpa’s funeral is tomorrow morning. We should head over to the ancestral family home earlier."

I murmured the words quietly, taking care to keep my tone even and devoid of any nagging edge. I was terrified his frantic devotion to Chloe had eclipsed his familial duties, pushing Arthur Vance's final rites out of his mind. I needed to ensure he remembered his place for the sake of the family.

Tristan merely offered a guttural, disinterested grunt.

"Mm."

He had no desire to engage in conversation with his wife. He did not ask how I felt, nor did he offer any thoughts on his grandfather's passing. His rigid spine remained stiff under my ministrations. Assuming our hollow interaction was finished and that he would retreat to his grand study down the hall as was his usual late-night routine, I finished drying the last wet sections of his hair. I pulled the towel away, backed off the edge of the bed, and walked around to my side. I threw the damp towel onto a nearby armchair and lay down beneath the duvet. My body throbbed with the deep, bone-weary exhaustion caused by the early stages of pregnancy. All I wanted was to close my eyes and drift into oblivion.

Suddenly, the mattress dipped under his substantial weight. My eyes snapped open in the dark. Before I could process what was happening or turn to face him, Tristan slid under the duvet next to me. The heat radiating off his large body broke through the cold chill of the air conditioning. His long, muscular arm snaked firmly around my waist. Taking a fistful of my nightgown, he yanked my spine flush against his hard, broad chest.

He leaned over my shoulder. His hand caught my chin, turning my face toward him, before he brushed a feather-light, possessive kiss against my parted lips. His scent enveloped me, raw and overwhelming. My heart leaped into my throat in sheer panic. This was a massive deviation from his routine. He never slept in this bed after visiting Chloe.

"Tristan, I'm..."

I stammered, twisting my shoulders in a vain attempt to break the iron grip holding me in place. The friction of the bedsheets tangled around my legs.

Tristan's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. A dark, primal flame of carnal hunger ignited within his dark pupils, rendering his handsome features sharp and predatory in the dim light.

"Unwilling?"

He questioned coldly. His grip tightened like a steel band around my hips, bruising my soft flesh. The sheer dominance radiating off his frame pinned me to the mattress. God in heaven knew I was unwilling. But a wife’s consent had never carried any actual weight in Tristan's eyes. My status in his life was that of a legal accessory, a body meant to warm his bed upon demand regardless of my own physical or emotional state.

With the six-week embryo fragile inside my womb, an overwhelming terror of spontaneous miscarriage gripped my senses. The thought of losing the only piece of light in my miserable existence made my blood run cold. Leaning my head back against the silk pillow, I swallowed my remaining pride and pleaded in a trembling whisper.

"Can you... can you be gentler tonight?"

Tristan gave no verbal answer. His thick, dark brows furrowed in deep annoyance at my audacity to set conditions on his desires. He resented the very notion that I had a voice in our marital bed. Rolling over with sudden, forceful momentum, he grabbed both of my wrists and pinned them tightly beside my head against the mattress. His large body draped over mine, crushing the breath out of my lungs. He reached down with his free hand, roughly tearing my cotton nightgown aside and stripping my panties down my legs in one fluid, merciless motion, leaving my lower half exposed to the cool air. He did the same with his towel, kicking it to the floor.

He grabbed his thick, hard cock and thrust straight into my dry pussy with aggressive, brutal force. The lack of preparation and his sheer size ripped a sharp gasp from my throat. He drove his body onto mine, ravaging me with relentless thrusts that showed zero consideration for my comfort or safety. He pulled almost all the way out before slamming his cock deep into my cunt again and again at a punishing speed. The sheer physical friction of his bare flesh slapping against mine and the harsh, unyielding penetration sent stabbing spasms of agony shooting through my pelvis. Every time his hips cracked against mine, my internal organs felt bruised and battered. The heavy weight of his chest crushed my breasts, his muscles flexing with animalistic exertion as he used my body to bleed out the tension Chloe had caused him.

Cold sweat beaded heavily across my forehead, mixing with tears I refused to shed, running down my temples and soaking into the pillowcase. I bit down hard on my lower lip, punishing the tender flesh until the metallic, copper taste of my own blood flooded my tongue. I refused to scream or give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg for mercy. Instead, I curled my inner muscles tightly around him, bracing my core and holding my breath as I desperately prayed to whatever higher power would listen for my womb to protect my child against his ruthless, pounding assault.

Outside the window, a massive fork of lightning fractured the inky black sky. A few seconds later, booming thunder shook the thick windowpanes in their wooden frames. The deafening crash of nature’s fury drowned out the rhythmic, embarrassing creaking of the ornate mahogany headboard slamming against the wall. He kept pounding his cock deep inside me, his grip on my wrists tight enough to leave dark purple bruises. The relentless friction kept my lower half burning with discomfort and terror for the baby.

When his heavy release finally shuddered through his massive frame, he ground his hips down hard, spending himself deep inside me. He went still for a fleeting second, his heavy breath fanning my sweaty neck. Then, he withdrew his cock from my cunt without uttering a single word of comfort or acknowledgment. He threw the blanket off, climbed out of the bed, and disappeared back into the master bathroom. The door closed, and the rushing sound of water started up again. He felt the need to wash himself clean of me, as though touching me made him dirty.

I lay broken and gasping for air on the tangled, ruined sheets, curled into a tight fetal position. My hands hovered protectively over my lower stomach, terrified to find blood between my legs. The lingering dull pain radiating through my pelvis made my eyes water. I needed painkillers, but taking any medication could harm the baby. The sacrifice had to be made in silence.

The digital clock on the nightstand clicked to precisely eleven o'clock. His expensive cell phone, resting on the bedside table, began to vibrate against the wood with an obnoxious hum, the screen lighting up the shadowy room. I turned my head, staring at the illuminated caller ID shining brightly in the darkness. I knew instantly, with a sinking rock in my gut, that only Chloe Mercer could summon him at this ungodly hour. She had a sixth sense for pulling him away just when I needed the illusion of a husband.

The shower turned off. Tristan emerged for the second time, dressed in fresh, crisp clothes. He snatched up the vibrating phone from the nightstand, wiping his damp hands on a towel before hitting the answer button. He raised the device to his ear with a harsh frown marring his perfect features.

"Chloe, stop fooling around!"

He barked into the receiver. I could not hear her whiny, delicate voice through the speaker, but whatever sweet poison she whispered made Tristan’s strong jaw clench in obvious agitation. His dark eyes flickered toward the window, looking out into the raging storm as if mapping his route to her apartment. He ended the call with an aggressive tap of his thumb. He turned swiftly toward the wardrobe and began pulling his heavy wool trench coat off a hanger, sliding his arms into the sleeves. He was preparing to walk out into the dangerous storm just to soothe her latest tantrum.

For two long, humiliating years, I had closed my eyes, turned my back, and endured his midnight departures. I had swallowed the acidic taste of betrayal every time that front door slammed shut. I had trained myself to play deaf and blind while he played knight in shining armor to another woman. But tomorrow was Arthur Vance's funeral. Tomorrow, the Vance family needed to present a united front to honor his grandfather's final rites. The media and the business rivals would be watching like vultures.

Overcome by a sudden, desperate impulse to reclaim a scrap of dignity, I forced my aching legs off the mattress. I sprang from the bed, ignoring the sharp twang of pain in my lower stomach. I rushed across the carpet, grabbed his thick forearm wrapped in the wool sleeve, and held on tightly with both hands, using my body weight to stop his forward momentum.

"Can you stay tonight?"

Tristan stopped in his tracks. He turned his head slowly. His handsome visage twisted into a terrifying mask of biting scorn, his eyes regarding me as though I were a speck of dirt on his expensive Italian shoes.

"Did I pleasure you so thoroughly just now that you're starting to act out, Valerie?"

His crude, disgusting mockery struck me harder than a physical slap across the face. The sheer vulgarity of his tone sucked the air right out of my lungs, making my chest tighten with a mixture of shame and boiling anger. He twisted the non-consensual violation I endured to protect my baby into a twisted narrative of lust.

Despite the raging tremor in my knees and the lingering pain between my thighs, I refused to back down. I forced my chin high, meeting his cutting glare with fiery defiance.

"It’s Grandpa’s funeral tomorrow. Even if you can’t bear to spend a single night away from her, shouldn't you practice a little restraint for the family's sake?"

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. I watched the dangerous storm brewing in his dark, bottomless eyes.

"Are you threatening me?"

Tristan's eyes narrowed dangerously, the temperature in the room plummeting below freezing point. In the blink of an eye, his large hand shot out. His long, calloused fingers clamped tightly around my jaw, locking me in a vice-like grip that instantly bruised my delicate bone. He lifted my head, forcing me onto my tiptoes to alleviate the crushing pressure. Leaning down until his icy, peppermint-scented breath brushed across my burning cheek, he spat the words out with deadly venom.

"You seem to have grown a spine, Valerie Thorne."