⚠️ Content Warning NSFW
This chapter contains mature themes, including intimate scenes and emotionally complex power dynamics.
Seraphina's choices are intentional — but not simple. What unfolds is part strategy, part survival, and entirely her own.
Please read with awareness.
— CG Blaire
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The scent of wine still hung on Alaric as he walked into the estate, his boots loud against the polished marble. The laughter from the banquet still echoed in his mind, but he had already shifted focus.
It had been weeks since he touched Seraphina. Weeks since she had looked at him like she used to. Something had changed. She had changed.
He had noticed it at court-the way people looked at her now, the way her name carried more weight again. She moved differently. Held herself differently. And it wasn't because of him.
That was a problem.
He had come back tonight to fix that. Or at least, to remind her. To remind her who she belonged to.
He walked through the halls with purpose. Past the quiet guards who didn't question him. He did not visit Evelyne. Not tonight.
Tonight, he wanted his wife.
Seraphina stood in her room near the balcony. She was in her nightclothes, one hand resting on the doorframe. She didn't hear him enter at first. When she turned and saw him, she stilled.
Her posture shifted. Not in fear-but in preparation.
She hadn't expected him. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again. But here he was.
He was watching her. Looking at her like he used to. Like she was his to take.
Seraphina didn't move. She stayed where she was, spine straight, expression unreadable. She saw the look in his eyes. She recognized it. She had seen it before. She knew what was coming.
He stepped closer. She stayed still.
She reminded herself that this wasn't surrender. She had a plan. She was in control of what would happen next. She had prepared for this possibility. She had accepted the cost.
Later, once he was asleep, she would take the contraceptive waiting in her drawer. There would be no mistakes. No child to bind her to him again.
She would let him believe tonight had meant something to him. That he still had her.
Because the truth was, he didn't.
She was already gone.
But if keeping up the illusion a little longer meant she could finish what she had started-then she would endure.
Even if it made her skin crawl.
Even if it reminded her of everything he had taken.
She closed her eyes for just a moment, long enough to breathe. Then opened them again.
Alaric reached her. He didn't speak. He never needed to. He let his actions speak for him.
He closed the space between them, steps heavy and deliberate. His boots barely made a sound, but Seraphina felt the approach like a weight pressing into her chest. His hand wrapped around her wrist, not tight enough to bruise, but undeniably possessive. The other slipped to her waist and yanked her flush against him.
His breath hit her skin first-hot, sour with wine, and humid as he dragged his lips across her throat. He bit lightly at her neck, then kissed along the curve of her collarbone. She stared past him, over his shoulder, eyes focused on nothing.
She didn't stop him. That was the plan.
Let him believe she had surrendered. Let him think this was his right.
His fingers found the tie of her nightdress and pulled it loose with ease, letting the fabric slide down her arms. He didn't pause to admire. He didn't need to. This wasn't about tenderness-it was about control.
His hands roamed across her bare skin, brushing her breasts, sliding over her ribs, then curving down to grab her hips. He cupped her ass and pulled her tighter, rubbing against her until she felt the hard press of his arousal.
Then he lowered himself.
His mouth traveled slowly-calculated-down her chest, stopping to suck her nipples, pulling them between his teeth until she flinched. She hated that it still caused her skin to prickle. He circled one with his tongue, and she felt the heat surge between her legs. Her mind screamed, but her body remembered.
He continued down, kissing her belly, hands keeping her still. When he knelt and lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, she stiffened but allowed it.
His mouth pressed between her thighs, lips parting her. His tongue moved with practiced intent, stroking in patterns that were painfully familiar. He found every place she was most sensitive-every spot that once brought her pleasure-and exploited them.
She stared at the ceiling, at a crack in the plaster she had never noticed before.
And then it hit. The first climax.
It caught her off guard, snatching her breath. Her fingers curled against the wall. Her back arched despite herself. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped.
He didn't stop.
He licked and sucked and pushed her to another. Her body bucked, trying to recoil, but he held her firm.
Another climax.
And another.
He murmured against her skin, vulgar things. "You were made for this," he whispered, dragging his tongue up her thigh. "No one else knows how to touch you like I do." His voice was thick with pride. "You're mine, Seraphina. You always were. Always will be." Praise laced with ownership. She hated the heat flushing her chest. Hated the pulse building again.
He slipped two fingers inside her, curling them expertly as his tongue continued. The pressure made her knees shake. She gritted her teeth, but her hips still moved.
Another wave tore through her.
And still, he didn't stop.
He dragged it out of her-over and over. She lost count after the fifth. Her thighs trembled. Her stomach clenched. Sweat slicked her skin.
He finally stood, face glistening with sweat and pride, and stripped off his clothes without ceremony. He kissed her roughly, tasting himself on her lips. His hands squeezed her breasts, pinching her nipples until she gasped. Then he turned her around and bent her over the bed.
He didn't hesitate.
He entered her hard, fast. One brutal thrust.
She gripped the sheets, white-knuckled. Her breath caught.
He groaned and thrust again. His pace was relentless, hips slapping against her ass. He tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her back to him. "You missed this," he said into her ear. "I know you did."
She said nothing.
Her body clenched around him. Another orgasm built. She tried to fight it. Failed.
She hated that her body responded. Hated that it remembered.
He came with a low grunt, slamming deep inside her and holding there. He stayed buried inside her for minutes afterward, hips still pressed tight, breath panting against her skin. Five minutes. Maybe ten. Just long enough to make her feel trapped beneath the weight of him, the pressure of what he thought was intimacy.
But he wasn't finished.
He turned her onto her back and slid in again. Slower this time. Watching her. Studying her face.
She made it blank.
But her body shuddered. Her breath hitched.
He smiled and fucked her harder.
Again she came.
He flipped her onto her stomach, dragged her hips up. Fucked her that way.
Then on her side. Then her knees. Then his lap.
He lifted her and bounced her on him, groaning like a man starved.
She endured.
Each time, her body responded with traitorous precision, betraying everything she tried to hold back.
She felt broken-used-and still she came. Her body flared with unwanted sensation, automatic and merciless in its betrayal.
By the time the sun touched the windows, she had been taken six times. She wondered, faintly, if he had taken a tonic-one of those virility blends whispered about in the court. Magical in origin. Forbidden in large doses. Designed for long campaigns, or longer nights. It would explain his endurance. His obsessive pace. The way he kept coming back like he was enchanted by his own performance. And still, he wanted more.
He rolled toward her, hand sliding down her stomach, possessive even in his fatigue. She flinched at the contact, muscles tight from overuse, but didn't stop him. That would've ruined the illusion.
He kissed her shoulder, then dragged his mouth down her spine, spreading her legs again. Her breath hitched as he pushed her thighs apart, fingers brushing over the sensitive, swollen skin. It hurt now, but her body still pulsed, too used to his touch to deny it.
He teased her with slow strokes-fingers, then tongue-until she gasped. Her nails dug into the bedsheets. She didn't want to feel it. Didn't want to need release again. But her body wanted what it remembered.
He slid inside again. Slower this time, savoring it. His hands locked on her hips. He rolled them, flipped her on top of him. Forced her to ride him.
She didn't move. Not at all. Her body stayed upright on top of him, but she refused to give him anything-not even the illusion of participation. Her legs remained parted only because he kept her there. Her hands stayed loose at her sides, fingers barely curled.
She wouldn't perform for him. Wouldn't help him pretend this was mutual.
Alaric groaned in frustration and thrust up into her, hands clamping around her waist. He drove himself deeper, forcing her body to move with his. He grunted with every push, bouncing her on top of him like she was nothing more than a weight to be used.
Alaric groaned beneath her and took over. He thrust upward, sharp and deep, his hands gripping her waist to bounce her along his cock. She let him. Let him control the rhythm while she stayed hollow inside.
He grunted, mouth latching onto her breast again, sucking until the skin darkened, using her body like a vessel he still believed he owned.
Her head fell back as another climax took her, unwanted but unstoppable. In that moment, a flash of memory slammed into her-herself at sixteen, lying in Alaric's bed for the first time, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with love and trust. She had once adored the way he touched her. Had craved it. Back then, she had given herself to him with joy, whispering that she would always be his. That memory hit harder than anything else-the girl who had believed his passion was love, who had welcomed him without fear. That girl had been real. And she was gone.
The climax kept rolling through her, her body trembling even as her jaw locked tight. She couldn't stop it. Couldn't stop how he made her come. And when it finally crested and ebbed, she lay there breathless, furious, silent.
He held her against him and kissed her like it was love. "This is where you belong," he whispered into her ear. "No one will ever touch you the way I do. You feel it, don't you? Every time I take you, your body remembers. You were made for me, Seraphina. Mine-only mine." His voice was breathy, drunk on lust and delusion. Whispered promises and possession.
Then he flipped her again and took her from behind, deeper, rougher. Each thrust was another claim.
And her body still responded.
Her back arched as he slammed into her again, and she felt herself teetering on the edge. Her mind begged her to shut it down, to find a place of stillness and disappear. But her body betrayed her again. She clawed at the bedsheet, jaw clenched to muffle the ragged gasp that escaped when he shifted the angle, hitting a spot that sent a jolt straight to her core. Her thighs trembled around his hips.
She hated him. Hated herself. Hated how it still worked.
He didn't notice her rage, only her reaction. He groaned, gripping her tighter, thrusting faster.
This time she didn't cry out. She bit her tongue, let the climax hit without sound, without movement. A rebellion in silence.
And still, he came like it was triumph. Like she had given him something real.
He groaned her name, bit her shoulder, and came again. And once more, he didn't pull away. He kept himself inside her, unmoving, just holding there. As if staying inside her a little longer made it mean more. As if the way her body enclosed him confirmed the lie he told himself, that she was his again.
Only then did he finally fall still.
Eight times.
She stared blankly at the ceiling as his breathing slowed.
He was done. He was pleased.
She was shattered.
But he thought she was his again. He thought he had won. He was wrong.
But even as she lay still, her body ached in ways that screamed how thoroughly he had claimed it. Her legs were sore. Her hips bruised. Her nipples stung from overuse. There was no part of her untouched, unmarked.
He stirred again beside her, breath warm against her shoulder. "Told you, no one else makes you feel like that," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and pride. "You'll see... you'll always come back to me." Then he pulled her closer against him, like they had just shared something sacred. She didn't move. Didn't recoil. She couldn't. Her muscles were exhausted. Her spirit even more so.
She could still feel the ghost of his mouth on her skin. The burn between her legs. The heat that lingered from each unwanted climax. Each time he had taken her, her body had responded. Betrayed her. Welcomed him.
And every time, her mind screamed that it meant nothing.
But he didn't know that. He believed what he saw, what he felt. He believed her silence meant consent. That her orgasms meant devotion. That her endurance was submission, not strategy.
She didn't dare close her eyes. Not yet. If she slept, she might wake and forget that this was war, not love. That her body had been used, not cherished. That this was survival, not surrender.
He sighed deeply, content, satisfied. His breath tickled her shoulder. His hand rested over her stomach like a brand.
She counted the seconds between each breath. Marked the early sunlight creeping across the stone wall, inching forward like a silent clock.
She had played her part perfectly. He hadn't suspected a thing. Not her silence. Not her stillness. Not even the way she avoided his eyes. Letting him believe he had reclaimed her gave her time. Time to act. Time to finish what she had started.
She only needed a little more. In her mind, this was necessary. Every moment she endured brought her closer to the end. And when it finally came-when the truth landed like a blade across his smug certainty-she would savor it. He would be bitch-slapped by the weight of everything she'd hidden, every step she'd taken in silence. That would be the sweetest part of her revenge.
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This wasn't passion. It was power play. Control wrapped in skin, dressed up as intimacy.
Alaric thought he reclaimed her. Thought every gasp, every climax, every breath was proof she still belonged to him.
But Seraphina? She was already gone.
Every touch he thought was dominance was a distraction. Every moan he thought was surrender was a trap. She let him believe he owned her, so she could burn him from the inside out.
Because the sweetest revenge is the one you let your enemy enjoy, right before you pull the ground out from under him.
This chapter wasn't about pleasure. It was about survival. Strategy. Fury sealed behind silent lips and a body that refused to break.
If your blood boiled, if you wanted to scream, if you're ready for Seraphina to flip the game and crush him, subscribe, save to your library, and say it in the comments. He has no idea what's coming.
But you do.
— CG Blaire