“Fuck!” His furious hiss is accompanied by a blurringly fast movement. Before I can react, he’s got me encircled in his arms, my wrists crossed in front of my chest and his left leg wrapped around my knees to prevent me from kicking. With him holding me from behind, I can’t bite him, and my attempts to head-butt his chin fall woefully short as he keeps his face out of my reach.

All that training, and he subdued me in three seconds flat.

Frustration mingles with adrenaline, adding to the fury brewing inside me. Fury at him for taunting me with tenderness these two weeks, and most of all, fury at myself.

My fault, my fault, it’s all my fault. The words are a vicious drumbeat in my mind. Guilt, bitter and thick, rises in my throat, choking me as it mixes with the aching grief.

Rosa. Our baby. Dozens of men dead.

The sound that bursts out of my throat is something between a growl and a sob. Despite the futility of it, I begin to fight, bucking and twisting in Julian’s iron hold. I don’t have much leverage, but with one of his legs restraining mine, my frantic, jerky movements are enough to push him off-balance.

With a loud curse, he falls backward, still gripping me tightly. His back takes the brunt of the fall. I hardly feel the impact as he grunts and immediately rolls over, pinning me to the hard wooden floor. Disregarding his heavy weight on top of me, I continue fighting, struggling with all my strength. The cold wood presses into my face, but the discomfort barely registers.

My fault, my fault, all my fault.

Half-panting, half-sobbing, I try to kick back, to scratch him, to make him feel even a tiny fraction of the pain consuming me inside. My muscles scream with strain, but I don’t stop—not when Julian wrenches my wrists back and ties them at the small of my back with his belt, and not even when he drags me up by my elbow and hauls me to the bed.

I fight as he tears off my dress and underwear, as he fists his hand in my hair and forces me up on my knees. I fight as though I’m fighting for my life, as though the man holding me is my worst enemy instead of my greatest love. I fight because he’s strong enough to take the fury inside me.

Because he’s strong enough to take it away from me.

As I writhe in his brutal hold, his knee forces apart my legs, and his cock presses against my entrance. In one savage thrust, he penetrates me from behind, and I cry out at the pain, at the unutterable relief of his possession. I’m wet, but not enough, not nearly enough, and each punishing thrust scrapes me raw, hurting me, healing me. My thoughts scatter, the chant inside my mind disappearing, and all that’s left is the feel of his body inside mine, the pain and the agonizing pleasure of our need.

I’m rushing toward orgasm when Julian begins talking to me, growling that he’ll always keep me, that I’ll never belong to anyone but him. There is a dark threat implicit in his words, a promise that he’ll stop at nothing. His ruthlessness should terrify me, yet as my body explodes in release, fear is the last thing on my mind.

All I’m cognizant of is sheer and utter bliss.

He flips me onto my back then, releasing my wrists, and I realize that at some point, I did stop fighting. The fury’s gone, and in its place is deep exhaustion and relief.

Relief that Julian still wants me. That he’ll punish me, but won’t send me away.

So when he grips my ankles and props them on his shoulders, I don’t resist. I don’t fight when he leans forward, nearly folding me in half, and I don’t struggle when he scoops the abundant moisture from my sex and smears it between my ass cheeks. It’s only when I feel his thickness poised at that other opening that I utter a wordless sound of protest, my sphincter tightening as my hands move to push against his hard chest. It’s a weak, mostly symbolic gesture—I can’t possibly move Julian off me that way—but even that slight hint of resistance seems to enrage him.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he growls, and in the faint light from the window, I see the dark glitter of his eyes. “You don’t get to deny me this, to deny me anything. I own you . . . every inch of you.” He presses forward, his massive cock forcing me open as he whispers harshly, “If you don’t relax that ass, my pet, you’ll regret it.”

I shudder with perverse arousal, my nails digging into his chest as the tight ring of muscle gives in to the merciless pressure. The burning invasion is agonizing, my insides roiling as he pushes in deeper and deeper. It’s been months since he’s taken me like this, and my body’s forgotten how to handle this, how to relax into the overly full sensation. Squeezing my eyelids shut, I attempt to breathe through it, to remain strong, but tears, stupid, betraying tears, come anyway, trickling out from the corners of my eyes.

It’s not the pain that makes me cry, though, or my body’s twisted response to it.

It’s the knowledge that my punishment isn’t over, that Julian still hasn’t forgiven me.

That he may never forgive me.

“Do you hate me?” The question escapes before I can hold it back. I don’t want to know, but at the same time, I can’t bear to keep silent. Opening my eyes, I stare at the dark figure above me. “Julian, do you hate me?”

He stills, his cock lodged deep within me. “Hate you?” His big body tenses, his lust-roughened voice filling with disbelief. “What the fuck, Nora? Why would I hate you?”

“Because I miscarried.” My voice quavers. “Because our child died because of me.”

For a second, he doesn’t respond, and then, with a low curse, he pulls out, making me gasp in pain.