Alia lay still on Victor's chest for a long time. The snow outside and the silence within created a strange, haunting magic. Victor's deep, rhythmic breathing and the steady thumping of his heart were like a dark lullaby in her ears.
Suddenly, a flicker of compassion stirred in Alia's heart. Despite everything, this was the man her life was bound to he was her husband. There was a world of difference between the monster of the night and the peaceful Victor of the morning.
Alia slowly lifted her head, noticing Victor's powerful arm still draped possessively over her. She leaned down and placed a soft, tender kiss on the back of his hand. A single warm tear escaped her eye, landing on his skin.
She whispered in a voice barely audible:
"I won't leave you, Victor... I know you are cruel, but I don't have the strength to break this bond."
Her throat felt parched after the hours of screaming and crying. She realized she needed some water. However, she was so entwined with him that moving even an inch risked waking him from his deep slumber.
Resting her palm against his hard abs, she tried to gently untangle herself. She glanced at the water pitcher sitting next to the empty wine glass on the table. She wondered was she truly his wife, or just a caged bird who had started to love her captor?Alia tried to carefully untangle herself from Victor's iron grip. Her throat was parched, and she desperately needed a sip of water. Just as she stepped away from the bed toward the water pitcher, it happened.
Victor wasn't as deeply asleep as she thought, or perhaps his predatory instincts were tuned to her every move. In one swift motion, Victor's powerful hand shot out and clamped around Alia's wrist.
Startled, Alia lost her balance as Victor yanked her back onto the soft mattress, pinning her beneath him. A sharp gasp escaped her lips— "Aaaaaah! What are you doing? Let go of me!"
Victor's eyes were still heavy with sleep, but his gaze was as sharp as a blade. He loomed over her, pinning her wrists against the bed. His six-pack pressed against her, and the owl tattoo on his chest seemed to stare her down.
Victor growled in his deep, morning voice, "Where do you think you're going? Who gave you permission to leave this bed before I woke up?"
Gasping for air, Alia replied, "I... I was just going to get some water. Let me go, Victor. What are you doing? I'm right here!"
Victor lowered his head to her neck, his hot breath searing her skin. He gave a cold, dark smirk. "I'm thirsty too, Alia, but not for water. I felt you kissing my hand while I was 'sleeping.' Now, I'm not letting you go anywhere until you finish what you started."
Alia realized the morning's peace was just a trap. Victor was ready to drown her in his obsession all over again.Victor's gaze softened into a strange, dark affection. Realizing she was truly weak and parched, he loosened his grip on her wrists but refused to let her leave the bed.
He reached out, grabbed the glass, and poured some cold water. Then, he hauled Alia into his lap, pulling her back against his broad chest. Her back was now pressed firmly against his rock-hard six-pack.
Victor held the glass to her lips, his other hand tilting her chin up. He said in a low, steady voice, "Drink. Quench the thirst in your body, because after this, I'm going to make you burn all over again."
Alia gulped down the water greedily. As she took a ragged breath, Victor tossed the glass aside onto the carpet. He spun her around to face him.
His deep voice vibrated with a raw intensity. He whispered:
"Do you know the punishment for trying to escape me in the morning?"
Before Alia could respond, Victor captured her lips in a fierce, deep kiss. It was a kiss devoid of mercy, filled only with possession and primal craving. The heat of his lips and the sheer weight of his muscular frame made Alia lose her senses once more.
Pulling back just an inch, his owl tattoo scraping against her skin, Victor growled against her ear:
"We aren't leaving this room today. Let the world burn outside; today, in St. Petersburg, there is only you and me."Victor's dark side emerged in a terrifying way. He laid Alia face down on the bed, her long, silky hair splayed across her back like a storm of shadows on white sheets.
Victor sat behind her, his powerful, tattooed body looming over her. His six-pack abs rippled with excitement. He bit her neck deeply, a mixture of pain and possession. Alia winced, unaware of what he was about to do next.
Victor pulled out his high-end smartphone. In the dim, morning light, he took a raw, intimate photo of Alia in her vulnerable state.
Alia whispered, "Victor... what are you doing? Delete that!"
Victor gave a cruel smirk. "Hush, Alia. You aren't just mine; you are my pride."
Without hesitation, he uploaded the photo to an ultra-secret, High-profile group of five Mafia lord Other countries. This was their private circle where they shared their conquests, power moves, and even intimate photos of their wives to assert dominance.
Immediately, the phones of the other four lords began to ping.and Whose leader is Victor himself Russian Mafia lord
Lord Dragunov: (Posted a photo) "Exquisite, Victor! Look at my Natasha; I had her in chains just like this last night."
Marcos: (Posted a photo of his weeping wife) "They look best when they are broken. Victor's wife is truly a prize."
When Alia realized her husband had exposed her not to the world, but to four predatory beasts, she felt a soul-crushing shame. She was no longer a person to him; she was a 'thing' to be showcased.
Victor set the phone aside and pulled her back into his embrace. He growled in his deep voice, "See? They all envy me. Because you aren't just a wife you are the most expensive trophy in this Mafia empire."The group chat exploded with messages. The four Mafia Lords were losing their minds over the photo Victor had shared. Dragunov zoomed in on the image and replied instantly.
Lord Dragunov: "Wow, Victor! Look at that hair! It's incredibly long and thick. And that shade... it's like dark brown honey. I wouldn't want to come out if I buried my face in that. Is she Russian?"
Victor stared at the screen with a sinister smirk. He tightened his hold on Alia, marking his territory.
Lord Victor: "No, Dragunov. She's not Russian. She's pure Bangladeshi. You won't find that honey-brown hair and sun-kissed skin in any Russian girl. There's a stubbornness in her blood that I take great pleasure in breaking."
Marcos: "Bangladeshi? Really? I thought your taste was strictly European. But this girl's figure and hair are enough to shake the entire Mafia underworld. Victor, you've hit the jackpot!"
Alia lay beside him, feeling her soul wither as she saw the messages and her own exposed photo on the screen. Four strangers were discussing the color of her hair and making lewd comments—was this her fate?
Victor typed back to Dragunov:
"When I wrap that long hair around my fingers and pull, her struggle is a sight to behold. She doesn't give up as easily as your Russian dolls."
Alia recoiled in shame and hatred. She realized she was nothing but a rare 'trophy' to Victor, something to be displayed for his friends' twisted satisfaction. Victor put the phone down and whispered against her ear:
"Did you hear that? They all want you. But you are mine. Only these hands have the right to touch this hair."Victor's cruelty crossed every imaginable boundary. He picked up his phone and clicked the video call option in that secret, high-profile group.
In an instant, the four other Mafia Lords joined the call. Their faces—Dragunov, Marcos, and the others—flashed onto the screen. But they weren't alone. Both Dragunov and Marcos had forced their own wives to sit beside them in front of the camera, looking just as shattered and broken as Alia.
Victor turned the camera toward Alia. She tried desperately to cover her face and body with her long, honey-brown hair, trembling with shame. Victor let out a dark, booming laugh in his deep voice.
"Look, Dragunov! This is my Bangladeshi trophy. Last night, the snow of St. Petersburg melted from her screams, but the luster of her hair hasn't faded one bit."
On the other side of the screen, Dragunov's wife, Natasha, and Marcos's wife, Olena, stared at Alia. Their eyes were filled with a shared, silent agony. They could feel each other's pain across the digital void. Dragunov laughed, "Magnificent, Victor! Your wife is truly a haunting beauty. Natasha, look at this girl—this is what a real prize looks like."
Alia couldn't take it anymore. She burst into violent sobs, trying to push away Victor's iron-hard hand. But he only pulled her closer, biting her neck deeply in front of everyone to display his absolute ownership.
Victor addressed the group with cold pride: "You've only seen pictures. Now, see the reality. I've broken her spirit so thoroughly that she is nothing more than a puppet in my hands."
As Alia saw the other wives being humiliated in the same way, a strange, new resolve began to harden inside her. She realized she wasn't just a victim; she was part of a sisterhood of captive queens.
Victor ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed. He leaned into her ear, his voice a gravelly whisper: "How did it feel to be admired? Now the whole underworld knows exactly whose property you are."
Alia's tears were no longer cold; they were as hot as lava. She thought to herself: You stripped me bare before the world today, Victor. But this humiliation will be the very thing that buries youAlia couldn't take it anymore. When Victor dragged her dignity through the dirt in front of the Mafia Lords, the frightened girl died, and a fierce, vengeful woman took her place. She stopped hiding.
She jerked her hand away and stared directly into Victor's eyes, her gaze burning with pure hatred. In a voice trembling with rage, she screamed:
"How dare you, Victor! You think you're a Lord? You're nothing but a beast, a monster! You b*d, you sn of a b***!"
For a split second, Victor was stunned. In all his years as the King of St. Petersburg, no woman had ever dared to look him in the eye like that, let alone curse at him.
Victor's Reaction:
The shock on Victor's face quickly morphed into a terrifying, cold calmness. He tightened his grip on her hair, his six-pack abs rippling as his body tensed. His eyes weren't filled with lust anymore; they held a murderous intent.
He hissed through gritted teeth, "You curse at me? At the King of St. Petersburg? I have every right to rip that tongue out of your mouth, Alia."
Alia laughed, a sound filled with mockery and defiance. "Do it! Kill me! But remember, you can ravage my body, but you will never wipe away this hatred."
Victor slammed her back onto the bed. On the phone, the other Lords were still laughing, but Victor wasn't laughing anymore. He realized this Bangladeshi girl might be physically trapped, but her spirit was slapping him across the face.
He leaned in, his hand tightening around her throat as he whispered, "I will silence that poisonous tongue of yours tonight. By the time I'm done, you won't be able to scream, let alone curse."The murderous glint in Victor's eyes vanished, replaced by a twisted, mocking smirk. He loosened his grip on her hair but remained pinned over her. He grabbed her jaw firmly, bringing his face inches from hers.
Victor chuckled, his voice echoing with dark sarcasm. "Relax! I didn't mean to humiliate you, Alia. I was just having some fun with them."
Alia stared at him in disbelief, her eyes still brimming with tears and rage. Victor spoke again in his deep, gravelly voice:
"You don't understand how this world works. Dragunov, Marcos—they think I've grown soft for you. I had to show them that you are still mine, under my heel. It was a power play, nothing more. My intention wasn't to belittle you."
Victor nipped her earlobe playfully, whispering, "Don't be angry. You are my Queen, and displaying you to the world is an addiction for me. The more you curse at me, the more I want to conquer you."
He tossed the phone aside, exiting the group chat. He pulled her back into his embrace, his owl tattoo scraping against her skin once more. He acted as if the humiliation was a trivial thing, just a standard game among lords.
But Alia knew better. This 'fun' was a poisonous weapon. Even if he called it a joke, he was systematically crushing her soul. She remained silent, but the curse was still screaming in her mind. She thought: I'll show you what 'fun' really looks like tonight, Victor.