It only takes a second to count the guards in the room.Twelve.Even if no one else comes in, the thought of that many men touching me, using me, fucking me, when I’ve only ever been with one man before Damian—nausea sweeps through me, mingled with terror, the combined sensation threatening to buckle my knees and send me to the floor. Only the guards’ hands on my arms, in a firm, bruising grip, keep me upright.
I look at Damian, begging him silently to have another solution. Doing this with him would be better than all of these other men, better than strangers, but still…
I don’t want to be used in front of an audience. It’s horrific in a different way if it’s Damian, someone that I want, someone that I’m beginning to have feelings for that I’ve never felt for anyone else. It’s a different kind of violation.
The guards are armed. Damian must have a plan. Some kind of way out of this…
I look at the silver-haired man in the suit. Giovanni Russo, theman behind everything that’s happened to me since that first, awful night, who came to see me earlier. Who told me how much money he plans to make from me.
All around me are men who want to use me for themselves. Everyone except Damian, who has fought every desire he’s ever had for me. Who has only ever wanted to protect me.
“You’re insane,” I whisper, looking at Giovanni. "Even for you people, this is completely insane."
"Quiet," Giovanni snaps. "You'll speak when spoken to. Your mouth has better uses, whore."
The snarl that comes from Damian is animalistic, the rattle of his chains chilling my blood. “Don’t,” he growls, and the menace in his voice is enough to make even Giovanni take a step back. “Don’t fucking speak to her like that.”
Giovanni sneers. "You're hardly in a position to give orders."
"Try me."
For a moment, the room is completely silent except for the sound of breathing and the distant hum of industrial machinery. Then Giovanni laughs, but it sounds forced.
He gestures to his men. "Uncuff him. But keep your weapons ready."
One of the guards comes forward—a bit hesitantly—and unchains Damian, taking off his cuffs. I can see him flex his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers. Giovanni takes a step back, his arms crossed as he nods toward the table.
“Now,” he says calmly. “Prove to me that this marriage is real.”
Damian looks at me, a long, searching look that is full of regret and hesitation. He doesn’t want to do this. I can see that he doesn’t. But I know he’s gone through every angle already. If he does this, it’s because he doesn’t have any other choice. I know—Itrust—that that’s true.
I swallow hard and give him a tiny nod.I won’t hate you for this. I won’t. I promise. I hope he can see that in my face. That I don’t blame him—that I would never blame him.
Damian looks at Giovanni. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
Giovanni laughs. “I think you know. Or are you a virgin, Kutnezsov? I’d be very surprised to hear it.”
“I know how to fuck,” Damian snarls back. “But I want to hear it. I want to knowexactlywhat you want, so you can’t weasel your fucking way out of it after and say there’s some reason for not letting us go.”
Giovanni’s smile widens. “Smart. I do wish you’d come and work for me. But it’s simple, Damian. I want you to fuck your wife. Right here, right now, in front of all of us. Pick your position, but make sure we all get a good look at that pretty pussy before you sink your cock into it. Fuck her until you come, and make sure you come inside of her. That should be simple enough. If she's really your wife, if this marriage is real, then you should have no problem performing for an audience."
I can see the fury on Damian’s face at the crude words, the flush on his neck as he glares daggers at Giovanni.
Giovanni shrugs. “Or, my men can have her. Your choice, Kutnezsov.”
I’ve never seen such violence in a man’s face, as the way Damian looks at Giovanni. I would be terrified to see someone look at me in that way, like he’s calculating all the ways he could torture and kill him, and deciding on one. Like he’d enjoy choosing, like choosing a pastry at a café.
Giovanni motions to me. “Go stand by the table. She doesn’t need to be uncuffed. Leave her hands bound.”
I’m shoved forward, toward the table. My heart pounds in my ears, my stomach twisted with nausea. I’m terrified, and I don’t know how I’ll get through this. Giovanni wants proof of our marriage—if I break down and cry, if I’m afraid of Damian, then won’t that be proof that it isn’t real? If it’s real, then I need to behave as if it is.
I need to play their game.
Damian walks toward me, slowly, his movements non-threatening. I see the guards around us tense in my periphery, but no one moves or interferes.
He stops just in front of me, raising one hand to touch my cheekjust below the bruise. He looks exhausted, under all of the rage, as dirty and tired as I am. “Did they hurt you? Are you hurt?”
“Not much,” I whisper. “Just a little banged up. It’s not that bad, really.”
