Valérien stood by the large, ornate windows of his father's manor, staring out at the endless fields that stretched beyond the horizon. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the landscape. But there was no warmth in his eyes, only the cold steel of obligation. He clenched his fists at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking as he did.
Tonight was the night.
He heard the door open behind him and the soft, hesitant footsteps of his newly wedded wife entering the room. She moved, barely making a sound, as if she were afraid to disturb the stillness that hung between them.
Valérien didn't turn to face her. He didn't need to; he could feel the weight of her fear, the way it filled the room, choking out the air.
"Come here," he commanded, his voice low, devoid of emotion.
She obeyed, her steps faltering only slightly as she approached him. She was shivering in the evening chill despite the thick gown she wore. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, knuckles white, as if she could ward off her fate with sheer will.
"You're trembling," Valérien observed, finally turning to look at her. His eyes scanned her from head to toe and the way she refused to meet his gaze.
"Are you afraid of me?"
She didn't answer, only nodded. She was meek, just as his father had promised. A perfect little lamb led to the slaughter.
"Good," he said, his tone flat. "You should be."
Her breath hitched, and she took a small step back, but Valérien closed the distance between them in an instant. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer until she was pressed against him. His grip was firm, unyielding. He could feel her pulse racing beneath his fingers.
"Listen to me carefully," he murmured, "You are my wife now. Your only purpose here is to bear me an heir and to obey. Do you understand?"
She nodded again, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. He looked satisfied at her silence. The way she swallowed back her sobs, trying to be brave, was almost amusing, this pathetic display of courage.
He released her wrist and stepped back, giving her a moment to collect herself, which made her think that maybe he might show her a shred of mercy.
But there was none to be found.
"Now," he said, his voice taking on an edge of impatience. "Bend over."
Her eyes widened, the first true spark of rebellion flashing in them. But it was quickly extinguished as he stepped forward again, his hand going to the back of her neck, forcing her to turn and face the bed.
"Do it," he hissed, his tone brooking no argument.
With trembling hands, she reached for the edge of the bed, her fingers curling into the rich fabric. Slowly, painfully, she bent forward, her body stiff with fear and humiliation. Valérien stood behind her, watching her every move, his gaze cold and calculating.
He took his time, deliberately drawing out the moment, savoring the power he held over her.
Her breath hitched as Valérien placed his hands firmly on her waist. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her shoulder as he whispered,
"You will bear the pain," he told her, his voice a dark promise. "Because that is what you are here for."
And then he finally moved as he claimed what was his. He reveled in the way she whimpered, in the tears she finally let fall.
This was his right, his privilege as her husband, and he would take it as he saw fit. There was no tenderness in his touch, no comfort in his words. Only the cold, harsh reality of their union.
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