𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗶𝗳𝘁𝗵-𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻

Oneirataxia (n.) - The inability to distinguish between fantasy and reality.

Anastasia

"Save your strength for later, when I take you on all fours."

Vincenzo's lucid explicit unadulterated words roared in my ears kin under the clouds. I couldn't hear anything except his filthy words. His filthy touch somehow mastered my seduction. My ear tingled where his lips were mere moments ago. The throb slid down to my core blazing a deep rumble in the pit of my belly.

"Off you go now," Amara ushered me, literally shoving me into the elite suit of the 'Hotel di Mirabella' closing the door behind me, winking as if to say 'Have fun.'

My gaze landed on the enormous king-sized bed, rose petals sprawled on it, I scoffed. Then sighed aware that nothing was going to occur.

Vincenzo's dark promise came to mind like a whiplash jerking me to encounter the harsh and bitter truth. I doubted his words. Although he is a Man of his word, he isn't interested in me. Not after what I did to Talia.

My best friend.

His sister.

I've never admitted the fact that someone so kind and so pure could possibly be the sister of a man Like Vincenzo.

A cold-hearted beast.

She was pure.

An angel in hell.

She deserved better and she had it. A safe and protected life.

A loving family.

The love of her life.

All of it snatched from her clutches because of my imbecile obstinacy.

This is a world we were born into. Some of us were forced in. Some are protected by loved ones.

But never safe.

The guilt claws in but I hastily chug it down. He won't touch me, neither will I allow it to happen.

I desperately wished Mom or Amara were here to help me get this heavy dress off. They believed it is an obliged chore of the husband. Nonetheless, it isn't.

I tried not to think of him. Or his sculpted body. His imposing build. The black tuxedo sprawling on his wide shoulders molding around every muscle or the raven pants hugging his thick thighs whilst he walked in utter dominance. The feel of his hard-toned muscles pressing into the softness of mine. A stark contrast, as we graced along the dance floor. I fought the urge not to think about how good his arm felt around my waist caging me into his body. Almost, claiming me. Even through the barrier of the fabric gown, I could feel the zeal in his palm spreading on me. I groaned at the memory of the feel of his wicked lips on my skin. Simultaneously, I loathed myself. I abhorred myself, my body, that it lured to his lascivious advances. I'm certain my reaction boosted his ego.

I should have fought over my control. A small part of me wanted to rebel. I wanted to know what it would be like to be underneath his heavy body.

To succumb to seduction.

To give in.

To be submissive.

Yet, it will reside in my fantasy.

Whilst we were dancing I had the urge to reach on my tiptoes only to press a kiss to his soft, inviting, plump lips. The temptation was too much to resist. However, I succeeded to withstand the implicit fantasies to myself.

Regardless, I felt ashamed.

Used.

Whore.

The words emerged in the faintest whisper lingering on my shoulders, gnawing at my heart, crawling on my skin, perishing my soul. It's been years, years, and since no one had called me that. That last time I check, Aunt Sophia had thrown the disgust. Ever since then, no one dared to utter it.