Victor paused for a brief second. His breathing was still ragged, but even in his frenzy, he remained calculating. He pulled open the bedside drawer and took out a premium black-wrapped condom.
Holding it up, Victor gave Alia a cold, ruthless smile. "Doing this directly could lead to complications later," he said, his voice dropping into a low growl. "And I'm not ready for risks yet. I'm using this."
Alia, broken and exhausted from the pain of the anklets and the physical storm she had endured, shuddered in terror. Seeing what was in his hand, she cried out in a trembling, desperate voice:
"Are you insane, Victor? Look at yourself... look at me! I can't take another second of this. My body is failing me... please, no more!"
She tried to pull the sheets over her bruised frame, but Victor brushed her hands aside, leaning in closer. There was no mercy in his eyes, only a dark, relentless obsession. He whispered against her skin, "I'm the one who decides when this ends, Alia. Whether your body is ready or not, tonight belongs to me."
The candle in the corner flickered one last time before dying out. In the absolute darkness, Alia's helpless sobs and Victor's cold determination made As Victor prepared himself, his physique looked like a cruel, carved statue in the dim light. Standing by the bed, his six-pack abs were defined and rippling with every heavy breath he took.
But the most striking and terrifying detail was the tattoo across his chest. A massive, intricate Owl spread its wings from his left shoulder down to his abdomen. The owl's piercing eyes sat right over his heart, staring into the void. In the underworld, the owl represented the silent predator—the one who sees all and rules the night.
When Victor leaned back over Alia, the wings of the tattooed owl seemed to come alive. Alia squeezed her eyes shut. The weight of his muscular chest, slick with sweat, pressed against her, making her feel small and trapped.
Victor grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. He pressed his hard, tattooed chest against her face and whispered coldly:
"Do you see these eyes, Alia? Just as this owl is etched onto my skin, I will etch my mark onto your soul. No matter how much you cry out tonight, I will not stop until my hunger is satisfied."
Alia tried to push against his stone-hard abs, but her strength was nothing compared to his. In that dark room, amidst the pride of Victor's tattooed body and Alia's fading resistance, the final, darkest chapter of the night unfolded.A deathly silence filled the room, broken only by Alia's gasping sobs. Without a word, Victor seized both of her hands and pinned them above her head. His single-handed grip on her wrists was like a pair of iron shackles, leaving her completely immobilized.
As Victor began to move, putting his full weight and relentless force behind his actions, Alia turned pale with agony. Her body instinctively tried to curl away, but Victor's crushing hold didn't allow her even an inch of movement.
Alia screamed with every ounce of strength she had left, tears streaming down her face:
"Ahhh! Victor, please... I'm going to die! It's too much... I can't take it! Please, stop... you're breaking me!"
Beads of sweat broke out across her forehead, and the veins in her neck strained with the intensity of the pain. Facing Victor's massive frame and primal strength, she felt like that 18-year-old girl again—helpless, terrified, and utterly destroyed.
Victor didn't stop at her pleas. Instead, the owl tattoo on his chest seemed to loom over her like a dark omen. He whispered against her ear, his breath burning hot:
"You won't die, Alia. A Mafia Queen is made of tougher stuff. This pain is your coronation. Endure it, because until this St. Petersburg night is over, I am not letting you go."
Alia's body eventually went limp as her screams faded into faint, broken whimpers. She realized there was no escape from this monster. Closing her eyes, she gritted her teeth and began to count the agonizing seconds of a night that felt like an eternity.Victor's inner demon was now in total control. Alia's tremors and cries, instead of calming him, only fueled his savagery. With one hand, he pinned both of her hands above her head with a grip like stone, rendering her completely immobile.
Then, with his other hand, he forcibly pried her legs apart, spreading them wide. The sound of the blood-stained diamond anklets scraping against each other added a haunting metallic chill to the air. Alia was now completely exposed, all avenues of escape sealed shut.
The Peak of Agony
Victor wasted no more time. Using his full weight and a brutal, piercing force, he took her. To Alia, it felt as though her body was being torn in two. She tried to scream, but no sound came out—only a sharp, trapped gasp for air.
She tried to claw at the sheets, but her fingers were trapped beneath Victor's iron-hard grip. The owl tattoo on his chest loomed over her, its predatory eyes watching her collapse under his weight.
Victor gritted his teeth and hissed into her ear:
"I told you, Alia, the cost of defying me is heavy. Tonight, your blood and your cries are my victory. Endure it, because I won't let you breathe for a single second until the sun comes up."
Tears streamed from the corners of Alia's eyes, soaking the pillow. She had reached a level of pain where her body began to go numb. In that St. Petersburg hotel suite, the only sounds left were the rhythmic, heavy strikes of Victor's cruelty and the silent breaking of Alia's spirit.Victor's savagery knew no bounds. Instead of calming down, Alia's helplessness seemed to fuel his darkest instincts. He flipped her over on the bed, his hands clamping down on her waist like iron shackles.
With the full force of his powerful physique, Victor began to deliver brutal, heavy thrusts against her buttocks. With every impact, Alia's body was jolted forward. The sweat from Victor's muscular chest dripped onto her back like rain, and the owl tattoo on his chest seemed to loom over her like a predator devouring its prey.
Alia clawed at the bedsheets with both hands, gritting her teeth to endure the assault. The sound of Victor's relentless strikes echoed through the silent hotel suite. In a voice broken by agony, Alia could only moan, "Uhhh... Victor... please... I'm breaking apart!"
Victor didn't listen. He only increased his intensity, his six-pack abs rippling with every movement. His eyes didn't hold passion; they held a primal, vengeful obsession. He was making sure Alia understood that in this luxury room in St. Petersburg, she wasn't a Queen—she was merely his possession.
The night was reaching its final hour. Outside, the falling snow stood witness to her torment. The combination of Victor's ruthless power and Alia's fading whimpers turned the room into a site of total devastation.Inside that dark St. Petersburg suite, a hellish frenzy took over. As Victor asserted his brutal dominance over Alia, a primal, ancient mafia persona emerged from within him.
As Alia lay nearly lifeless from the pain, Victor suddenly began to bellow a song in Russian. His voice, deep and gravelly, echoed with a sense of terrifying triumph.He sang an old Russian folk song often used as a war cry in the underworld:
"Chorniy Voron, Chorniy Voron..." (Black Raven, Black Raven...)
With every thrust and every strike, his voice grew louder and more aggressive. He sang the lyrics in rhythm with his movements. His six-pack and the owl tattoo on his chest glistened with sweat, as if the predator on his skin was dancing to the dark melodyAlia was past the point of screaming. She could only stare at Victor's crazed expression. To her, the Russian song wasn't music; it was a death knell. She realized Victor wasn't just taking her body; he was feasting on the destruction of her soul.
The chandeliers seemed to vibrate with the intensity of Victor's voice. That night in St. Petersburg bore witness to a monster's anthem and a Queen's silent collapse amidst the scent of sweat and blood.As Victor's primal frenzy finally subsided, a heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. Victor stood up, his sweat-slicked six-pack and the owl tattoo still gleaming in the shadows.
He reached for a glass of red wine from the bedside table. After taking a long, dark sip, he returned to the bed where Alia lay shattered.Alia was still weeping silently, her body broken by the night's assault. Victor sat on the edge of the bed. With one hand holding his wine glass, he reached out with the other.
But he didn't strike her. Instead, he used his thumb to slowly wipe away Alia's light tears. This sudden tenderness was, in many ways, more terrifying than his violence.
He spoke in a low, eerily calm voice:
"Stop crying, Alia. I told you, this night in St. Petersburg was meant to break your defiance. But look... in the end, I am still the one who wipes your tears. You are like this wine—intoxicating, but far too bitter."
Alia shuddered at his touch, her eyes locked onto his. Victor held the glass to her parched lips, whispering, "Drink. It will numb the pain. Tomorrow morning, we must put our masks back on and face the world again."
Alia considered shattering the glass, but she restrained herself. She realized that his gentle touch was just another way of asserting dominance. She swallowed the wine, but the fire of vengeance in her heart burned far hotter than any alcohol. Morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting a soft glow over the disheveled suite. After the violent storm of the night, an eerie, heavy silence now filled the air. Victor, exhausted by his own frenzy and the wine, had finally succumbed to a deep, Comatose sleep.
The scene on the bed had shifted into something deceptively peaceful. The predator of the night was now still. Alia was lying on Victor's chest, her head resting against his shoulder. Victor's massive, muscular arm was draped loosely around her, as if even in sleep, his subconscious refused to let his prize escape.
The Morning Breath
Victor was breathing deeply, his steady, rhythmic exhalations vibrating against Alia. With every rise and fall of his chest, Alia could feel the ripple of his six-pack abs and the thumping of his heart. The owl tattoo on his chest was now pressed against her cheek—the fierce bird of prey appearing momentarily tamed in the morning light.
Alia's Perspective:
Alia's eyes were wide open. She hadn't slept a wink. She stayed perfectly still, inhaling the scent of expensive wine, sweat, and cedarwood that clung to him. Looking at Victor's face—so calm and almost handsome in sleep—a wave of complex emotions washed over her. It was hard to reconcile this peaceful man with the monster who had brought her to the brink of death just hours ago.
Very carefully, she moved her hand, her fingertips grazing the hard muscles of his stomach. She could feel the literal heat radiating from his body.
In his sleep, Victor tightened his grip on her slightly, pulling her closer into his warmth. He let out a low, subconscious mumble in Russian:
"Ni kuda ne ukhadi... (Don't go anywhere...)"
Alia realized then that Victor's obsession was fueled by a fear of losing her as much as it was by a desire to own her. But the sting of the diamond anklets on her bruised skin reminded her of the cost of his "love." As she lay there on his chest, her gaze remained as cold as the Siberian winter outside. She thought to herself: Is this peace, or is it just the eye of the storm?
Outside, the snow continued to fall silently over St. Petersburg, while inside, a Queen lay plotting on the chest of the King who thought he had broken her.