The Wedding of Silence
Paris — Noon:The day Anna stopped being hers.
She didn't speak.
Not when the stylists arrived. Not when the silence in the room thickened around her like fog. Not when the makeup brush touched her face, wiping away the exhaustion, the defiance, the fear.
She sat in a deep velvet chair, unmoving, while three women fluttered around her like skilled ghosts.
One pinned her hair in an intricate twist, dozens of thin chains laced between the coils. Another lined her eyes in kohl, drawing winged precision into the edges of her gaze. The third painted her lips with blood-red gloss.
Her skin had been oiled. Her hands were decorated with bridal henna. Her wrists were layered in gold bangles that clinked too loudly in the quiet.
And then came the lehenga.
Dressed Like a Corpse
It was more armor than fabric.
Deep scarlet. So heavy she could barely breathe. It draped her shoulders, her waist, her ankles — a bridal shroud stitched with hand-embroidered silver vines. Every bead sparkled like a locked door.
When they lifted the necklace from the velvet box, she saw her reflection flinch.
It wasn't just a necklace.
It was a collar.
Thick with diamonds. Ice cold. Resting perfectly over the hollow of her throat, where Daimion's hand had pressed days before.
"You're beautiful," one of the women whispered.
Anna didn't reply.
She stared at herself.
Eyes lined. Lips bled color. Shoulders bare. Her pulse… invisible.
The mirror didn't reflect her anymore.
It showed what he wanted her to become.
The Walk That Wasn't Hers
The ceremony was held in a church older than memory.
No cameras. No flowers. No joy.
Only old stone, flickering chandeliers, and rows of strangers in suits too expensive to question anything.
She stood behind the doors.
Alone.
No father. No music. No pretense of choice.
Only a woman dressed in blood, walking to her own end.
When the doors opened, time stopped.
The carpet beneath her feet stretched longer than it should have. Each step echoed like the closing of a cell. Her lehenga dragged like chains.
And at the altar…
He waited.
Daimion.
The Altar of Power
He wore black. Not traditional. Not bright.
A tailored sherwani lined with silver thread. His hair was combed back. His gloves are on.
Not to hide weakness.
But because he didn't need to touch her to brand her.
His eyes didn't move from hers.
Cold.
Certain.
Unblinking.
She stood beside him.
Stiff as carved stone.
The priest opened a sacred book. His voice trembled slightly, as if even he wasn't sure what kind of union this was.
"Do you take this man—"
Anna didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
The silence stretched.
Too long.
Too loud.
The priest looked between them.
But Daimion never glanced away from her.
And then he spoke.
Calm.
Final.
"She does."
No one questioned it.
Not the guests. Not the priest. Not even the silence.
Because it was his silence now.
The Ring That Sealed Her Fate
She didn't reach out.
He took her hand. Slide the ring onto her finger.
Cold metal.
Heavy. Impossibly so.
Not a band of love.
A brand of ownership.
She didn't say the words.
But she heard them echo in her mind.
"I take you. To possess. To ruin. To make mine."
And when they kissed…
He didn't ask.
He simply took.
Mouth on hers. Firm. Controlled.
It wasn't passion.
It was a contract sealed in flesh.
Her lips didn't move.
But her knees shook.
The wedding was over. The silence had ended. And she was no longer hers.
The Night He Claimed Her
Valenhart Manor – Swiss Alps – Wedding Night
Snow drifted against the glass.
Candlelight flickered low in the massive suite — red velvet canopy, fire crackling in a stone hearth. The scent of clove and amber filled the room.
Anna stood near the fireplace.
Alone.
She wore only her bridal scarf now. The heavy dress had been taken. Her body was trembling — not with cold, but anticipation she refused to name.
She heard the door click.
He entered.
The Stare That Melted Bone
Daimion walked in slowly.
No words.
No warmth.
Just power in motion.
His black coat opened at the chest. His sleeves rolled. His eyes fixed on her like she was prey made perfect.
"Don't," she whispered.
He said nothing.
"You had no right—"
He stepped closer.
"No consent—no choice—"
He grabbed her chin. Tilted it upward. His fingers were fire.
"Your choice," he said, voice a low threat, "ended the moment you looked at me in that garden."
She raised her hand to slap him.
He caught her wrist.
"I warned you what would happen."
The Bed That Took Her
He lifted her.
Effortlessly.
She gasped as her back hit the velvet sheets. The mattress swallowed her. The fire threw golden light across the bed.
He didn't rush.
He stood over her. Watching.
Then slowly — unwrapped her.
Her scarf first.
Then her underdress.
Then the final layer — until she was bare beneath him, skin glowing in the firelight, legs clenched tight.
"You'll beg before I'm done," he said.
"I won't," she whispered.
He climbed over her, pressing her wrists above her head.
"Then scream."
The Claiming (Highly Erotic)
His mouth found her neck.
Then her chest.
Then lower.
He kissed her thighs. Her hips. The insides of her knees.
She writhed. Clenched.
His tongue slid over her slowly, deliberately, until her breath fractured. She twisted in his grasp. Tried to close her legs.
He held them open.
With one hand, he stroked between her folds — feather-soft, then firmer.
Her hips bucked.
"No—"
"Yes."
He entered her with two fingers.
She moaned.
Her voice cracked. Her body betrayed her.
"I hate you," she choked.
"I know."
He removed his hand.
And replaced it with his mouth.
She shattered.
Came with a cry — one hand fisting the sheets, the other clawing at his shoulder.
And then—he entered her.
Hard.
Slow.
Complete.
The Fall
She tried to fight.
Tried to twist away.
He pinned her.
One hand tangled in her hair. The other wrapped around her throat — not choking, just owning.
He thrust deeper.
Each stroke broke a piece of her.
He whispered against her ear:
"You're mine."
"I'll never be—"
He slammed into her, harder.
She screamed.
Bit his shoulder.
He groaned. Didn't stop.
The bed rocked. The headboard slammed. The windows fogged.
And when he finally came inside her, it wasn't a release.
It was a claim.
Aftermath
He didn't move for a long time.
Just stayed inside her.
Breathing.
Her body was sore. Shaking. Marked.
But her voice was gone.
She lay beneath him.
Possessed.
Ravaged.
Changed.
She had run.
She had resisted.
And still—
She now wore his name,
Carried his seed,
And moaned his name into the dark like a woman already broken.
The Morning After
Valenhart Manor — Dawn
The room smelled like melted candlewax, snow, and sex.
Outside, the sky was barely tinted with morning light. Pale blues. Frosted clouds. Silence that stretched beyond the mountains.
Inside, everything was still.
Except her.
Waking in Silk and Soreness
Anna stirred beneath the sheets— First with a flinch.
Then a gasp.
Her body ached.
Between her thighs, she was sore. Her neck tingled with ghosted kisses and teeth. Her wrists bore faint bruises, like the echo of restraint.
Her thighs were sticky. Her hips, raw. And her breath caught when she moved.
Reality crashed in.
The wedding.
The bed.
Him.
She sat up slowly, the silk sheets clinging to her bare skin.
Her hair was tangled. Her lip slightly swollen.
And her heart—
It didn't beat the same way it used to.
The Watcher
He was already there.
Daimion.
Sitting at the edge of the chaise near the fireplace. Fully dressed. One leg crossed over the other. A glass of something amber in his hand.
He watched her without blinking.
As if she belonged there.
As if nothing that happened the night before had been wrong.
As if her trembling was part of the ritual.
"Sleep well?" he asked finally.
His voice was smooth. Low. Possessive.
Anna didn't answer.
She gathered the sheet around her body, her hands tightening the fabric like armor.
Daimion stood.
Walked to the edge of the bed.
Bent slightly—just enough to brush a strand of hair from her face.
"You look beautiful in ruin," he said.
The Demand
She turned her face away.
"Don't touch me."
"I already have."
His fingers brushed her chin, forcing her to look at him.
Her eyes flared. "You forced—"
He cut her off.
"You moaned."
"I hated you."
"You came."
She slapped him.
Hard.
The sound cracked through the silence.
He didn't flinch.
He simply smiled.
"You feel powerful right now," he said. "But deep down, you know what last night meant."
She stared at him, breathing heavily.
"What did it mean?" she snapped.
He leaned in, voice brushing her lips.
"It meant you're mine now, not just in name. Not just in body. But in the way you hate how much you liked it."
The Smile Request
He stepped back. Straightened his cuffs.
"I'm giving you the morning off."
She blinked.
"What?"
"No orders. No demands. You'll rest. I'll have breakfast brought in. Silk robes. Tea. A bath."
She stared, unsure.
"Why?"
He turned toward the door.
And before leaving—
He said:
"Because I want to see you smile tomorrow." "I want to see if you can smile after what I've done to you."
Then he walked out.
Leaving her alone.
In silk.
In silence.
In the wake of her own body's betrayal.
She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just sat in the bed where she had been claimed. And tried to remember what her name used to sound like before he whispered it into her flesh.