The dusty bus ride to the outskirts of the county had been a living hell. Every vibration of the engine, every pothole in the neglected rural road, sent a jolt of white-hot agony through Elena's lower half. She sat huddled against the window, her hood pulled low, praying the other passengers couldn't smell the scent of expensive sandalwood and sex that seemed to cling to her skin despite her frantic efforts to wipe herself down in the estate's marble bathroom before fleeing.
By the time she reached the small, weathered cottage tucked away behind a screen of weeping willows, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. Elena climbed out of the vehicle, her legs bucking beneath her. She didn't just walk; she labored. Her gait was stiff, wide, and pained, her inner thighs feeling as though they had been rubbed raw with sandpaper. Each step was a monumental effort of will, her body protesting the beastly vigor with which Dominic Thorne had claimed her.
She pushed open the creaking gate and limped toward the porch. Before she could even knock, the door swung open.
"Elena?"
Sarah stood in the doorway, her expression shifting from relief to horror in a heartbeat. She watched as Elena stumbled across the threshold, her movements clumsy and "lame," as if she had been physically broken. Elena collapsed onto the tattered velvet sofa, a low, guttural groan escaping her lips as she tried to find a position that didn't make her wince.
"Oh my god," Sarah whispered, her hands flying to her mouth. "Elena, you're walking like... like you were hit by a car. What happened? I told you about that gig as a joke, a 'last resort'—I never thought you'd actually go to his den!"
Elena didn't answer. Her fingers, trembling with exhaustion, reached for the knot of the heavy scarf wrapped around her neck. As the fabric fell away, Sarah let out a sharp, choked gasp.
The marks were everywhere. Dark, plum-colored bruises blossomed across the pale column of Elena's throat—the unmistakable imprints of a man's teeth and lips. As Elena shrugged off her oversized jacket, the carnage continued. Her collarbones were mapped with hickeys, and on the soft swell of her shoulder, a deep, red mark stood out where Dominic had gripped her in the heat of his final climax.
"He bit you," Sarah breathed, kneeling beside her, her eyes welling with tears of guilt. "Elena, you look like you were attacked by a stray dog. That man... he's a beast. I heard rumors that the Thorne heir was primal, but this? This is madness."
Elena leaned her head back against the sofa, her eyes fluttering shut. "He was... thorough," she rasped, her voice still raw from the hours of screaming his name—or rather, the title she had used to keep him at a distance.
"You threw it away," Sarah sobbed, grabbing Elena's hands. "Your virginity, Elena. You were saving it for someone who would cherish you, not a man who treats women like disposable assets. Why? Why would you let a monster like Dominic Thorne be the one to break you?"
Elena opened her eyes, and for a moment, the cold, hard steel of her resolve flickered through the pain. "Because the bank doesn't accept 'cherishing' as a form of payment, Sarah. The wire transfer hit the account at 5:00 AM. My father's medical bills are cleared. The family land—the only thing my mother left us—is safe. If the price for that was one night of being a billionaire's toy, then I'd pay it again."
"But at what cost to you?" Sarah gestured to Elena's trembling knees. "You can barely stand! You're shaking, Elena. Your body is in shock."
"It's just physical," Elena lied, though her heart felt like a hollowed-out shell. She could still feel the phantom weight of him pinning her down, the sheer, terrifying scale of him filling her until she thought she would burst. "It'll heal. I'll take a bath, I'll sleep for two days, and I'll forget his face. He doesn't even know my real name. To him, I was just a Saturday night. To me, he was a paycheck."
"He's a Thorne," Sarah warned, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "They don't just 'forget' things they've tasted. You're different from the women he usually buys, Elena. You have a light in you. What if he looks for you?"
"He won't," Elena snapped, pushing herself up with a hiss of pain. She felt a "plop" of cooling fluid between her legs, a sickening reminder of how many times he had filled her. "Men like him look forward, never back. Now, please... I need the bathroom."
She stood up, her muscles screaming in protest. She moved toward the back of the house, her walk still "lame" and labored, one hand trailing along the wall for support. Every step felt like a fresh intrusion, her body still echoing with the heavy, rhythmic thrusts of a man who didn't know the meaning of the word 'gentle.'
She reached the bathroom and shut the door, leaning her forehead against the cold wood. She stayed there for a long time, listening to the silence of the countryside, a world away from the gilded cage of Manhattan.
She began to strip, her clothes falling to the linoleum floor. In the mirror, the damage was even worse. Her breasts were swollen and tender from his constant fondling, his thumbprints still visible on the underside of the soft mounds. Her waist was marked with the dark shadows of his large hands where he had held her still for his assault.
She turned on the water, the steam beginning to fill the small room. As she stepped into the tub, the hot water hit the soreness between her legs, and she let out a strangled cry, clutching the sides of the porcelain. She sat down slowly, feeling the water wash away the physical evidence of Dominic Thorne, but as she looked down at her bruised body, a terrifying thought crossed her mind—a premonition that chilled her more than the morning air.
I paid the debt, she whispered to the steam. So why do I feel like he's still inside me?
She didn't know that miles away, Dominic was already tearing the city apart to find her. She didn't know that the "beast" had found a scent he would never let go.