Mated to My Fiancé’s Alpha King Brother - Chapter 205

Chapter 205: Chapter 205
Seraphina’s POV

He came again today.

I heard the keycard beep. Heard the door open. Heard his footsteps cross the room.

I didn’t turn around.

I stayed facing the wall. Silent.

Then his footsteps. Moving away. The door opening. Closing.

Gone.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

This was day seven. Or eight. I’d lost count.

Seven days of him coming here with food I couldn’t eat. With that careful, controlled voice that made my skin crawl. With those eyes that looked at me like I was something broken he needed to fix.

Seven days of being his prisoner.

His secret.

I pressed my face into the pillow and tried not to scream.

—

He came back in the evening. Of course he did.

“Dinner,” he announced.

I was sitting by the window this time. Staring out at the city lights. At the life happening forty stories below that I couldn’t be part of anymore.

He set the food down harder than necessary. The containers made sharp sounds against the table.

“I need my phone,” I said suddenly. Pulled away from him. “Rico will be worried. He’ll think something happened.”

Damien’s expression shuttered. “I already called him.”

“What?”

“After the fight. I called your manager. Told him you were with family. That you needed time to recover.”

We stood there in awful silence. The food on the table getting cold. The distance between us impossible to cross.

“I should go,” Damien said finally. “Let you rest.”

I nodded. Didn’t trust my voice.

He walked to the door. Stopped. Turned back.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “I never stopped looking. Never stopped hoping. And I never—never—wanted anyone but you.”

The door closed behind him.

I stood there for a long moment. Then I walked to the bed and collapsed.

—

Night came.

I lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, thinking about everything.

About being trapped in this expensive cage with no way out.

The tears came slowly at first. Then faster. Harder.

I buried my face in the pillow to muffle the sobs. Didn’t want him to hear. Didn’t want to give him that.

But I couldn’t stop.

I cried harder. The sobs shaking my whole body. Making my ribs scream. Making my throat raw.

I didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear footsteps crossing the room.

Didn’t realize he was there until the bed dipped.

I froze. Heart hammering. Every muscle tensing.

“Damien?” My voice came out hoarse. Broken.

“Shh.” The word was slurred. Wrong. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Then I smelled it.

Alcohol. Strong. Overwhelming.

Oh no.

“Damien, you’re drunk—”

He moved fast. Faster than I could react. His weight came down on top of me. Pinning me to the mattress.

“Don’t run,” he mumbled against my neck.

Damien smells of whiskey and desperation, crushing me with drunken need.

His hands bruise my shoulders, pinning me as his fingers dig into the fragile silk of my pajamas like claws finding purchase.

I shove against his chest, a strangled cry caught in my throat.

His hips thrust against mine, forcing my thighs wider with relentless pressure, the denim of his jeans harsh against my bare skin as the blunt ridge of his arousal grinds ruthlessly through the thin barrier of my pajamas.

“You said you didn’t want anyone but me,” he slurs, hot whiskey breath puffing against my lips.

“I said *stop*,” I gasp, wrenching my face aside. His lips land on my cheekbone, wet, insistent.

His hand snakes between our straining bodies, fingers fumbling at my waistband. His fingers catch in the fabric, yanking down. Cool air hits my stomach, my hipbone. One rough fingertip catches the edge of my panties, pulling, exposing.

Panic surges, hot and metallic. My free arm strains upwards, trying to push his face away. I buck wildly, a trapped horse, my spine arching off the mattress. Only my hips press harder into the sudden, devastating friction as his hand finally slips past the barrier.

The thick pad of his middle finger drags roughly through slick, intimate folds I didn’t know were wet until he touched them. God, no. My body was betraying me, reacting to the sheer, violent presence of him.

“Fuck, Sera,” he groans, the sound ripped from his chest, raw and agonized. That single finger pushed deeper, knuckle-deep, stretching me impossibly, scraping fire along my inner walls.

He withdrew his finger wetly. His free hand flew to his belt buckle, the clinking metal frantic. I saw the thick, angry column of his cock straining against the confinement of his jeans as he shoved them down his hips. It sprang free, heavy, flushed deep purple at the head, glistening with pre-come, curving upwards against his belly.

He hooked an arm under my knee, lifting my leg high. My bare foot kicked at the air uselessly. His other hand grabbed his cock, guiding the blunt, swollen head to that exposed, vulnerable opening his fingers had invaded.

“*Damien!*” I screamed it this time, the sound raw-edged and real, mingling terror and fury.

A sob choked me as my body, unprepared, impossibly tight, was violated by his relentless drunken thrust. My clenched fists hammered once against his back, impact feather-light against his bulk before they fell open, shaking, against the expensive fabric of his shirt.

There was a roaring silence broken only by his ragged groan vibrating against my throat.