He Waited 1095 Days To Claim Me

　　The weight pressing me into the mattress felt terrifyingly, brutally real.

　　"Look at me, princess," Raze's voice drawled. It was a dark, velvety growl that made the marrow in my bones ache, vibrating straight through the sheets. His eyes didn't just look at me; they bore holes straight through my soul, claiming every inch of my exposed skin like I was his property all over again.

　　This couldn't be happening. Not here. Not in the quiet, safe suburban bedroom I had spent the last three years building. Not on the rug I had picked out with my fiancé.

　　"I—I have a life now, Raze. Get out," I stammered. I tried to sound fierce, tried to channel the independent woman I pretended to be during the day, but the words had no edge. They came out as a breathless plea.

　　Raze saw right through me. He always did. A slow, lazy smirk curled his lips, promising nothing but beautiful destruction. "This isn't a life, Nyra. It's a cage. And you've always loved being mine. You just forgot."

　　Before I could inhale enough air to scream, his hand fisted in my hair. He tilted my head back with a sharp, unforgiving tug that made my eyes water. With his other hand, he pinned both of my wrists above my head in a single, bruising grip, pinning me completely. His remaining hand disappeared beneath the hem of my shirt, his fingers rough, demanding, and entirely devoid of gentleness as they found my skin.

　　I let out a broken, shameful moan against his lips. My traitorous body didn't care that this man had broken my heart and ruined my life before I fled my father's house 1,095 days ago. It didn't care about the scars, the lies, or the danger. It only wanted the wreckage of him.

　　"Look at you, all wet and ready for me," Raze whispered against my ear, his breath hot and laced with the scent of rain and expensive tobacco. He shoved his fingers deep inside me, a brutal, possessive stretch that made me cry out. "You may say you don't want me, but this fucking clit has missed me, hasn't she? Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me to ruin you."

　　"I can't... Marcus..." I whimpered, my fiancé's name feeling like a sin on my tongue.

　　"Fuck Marcus," Raze hissed, his tone dripping with venom as he drove his fingers faster, demanding my complete submission.

　　My resolve shattered like glass. "Yes," I sobbed, arching my hips off the sheets in a desperate, frantic quest for more. "Please—please fuck me, Raze."

　　He didn't waste another second. With one violent movement, he tore my shirt down the center, exposing me to his starving gaze. He freed his heavy, thick cock—the one I used to crave, the one that used to anchor me to reality. When he sank into me, it wasn't a reunion; it was an execution. He drove into me with a punishing, relentless pace that tore the air straight from my lungs.

　　"Oh God, Raze..." I screamed into the quiet room, completely blind to the fact that I was destroying my own future. I hated how much I missed the violence of his touch. I hated that I was screaming his name into the dark.

　　"Raze—don't stop, please!"

　　Just as the white-hot peak of a shattering orgasm fractured my vision and pulled a final, jagged cry from my throat...

　　My eyes snapped wide open.

　　The suffocating scent of Raze's smoke and rain instantly vanished. The bedroom was completely still, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the streetlights outside. The air smelled of expensive sandalwood and lavender body wash. The heavy, physical pulses racking my body were very real, but the weight between my legs wasn't a ghost.

　　It was Marcus.

　　My fiancé was buried between my thighs, his head dipped low, working with a patient, rhythmic devotion. He was trying to love me. Trying to please me. And it felt like a physical slap across my face.

　　A wave of crushing, suffocating shame washed over me, immediately followed by something far worse, something truly monstrous: a hollow, bitter disappointment that it wasn't Raze. I was a traitor. I was a broken, twisted thing, dreaming about a predator who had hunted me, while a good, gentle man worshipped my body.

　　Marcus finally pulled away, his face flushed with genuine affection. He slumped onto the mattress beside me, breathless and smiling as he pulled me against his chest. "I love you, Nyra," he whispered, kissing my forehead.

　　"I love you too," I lied. The words tasted like ash and poison.

　　My skin was crawling, my heart still hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't lie in the bed we shared while Raze's phantom touch still burned between my thighs. Sliding out from under Marcus heavy arm, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, shivering as my feet hit the cold hardwood floor.

　　I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, desperate for a distraction, desperate to pull myself out of the nightmare. But when the screen illuminated the dark, my breath caught entirely in my throat.

　　1 Missed Call.

　　My eyes locked onto the string of numbers. My vision blurred. It was a number I hadn't seen in exactly 1,095 days. The private, encrypted line belonging to the man who had raised me in a world of blood, mafia politics, and brutality.

　　My father.

　　Three years ago, I had cut all ties. I had run away from the empire, changed my name, and sworn I would never look back. I thought I was safe. I thought the silence meant I was forgotten.

　　My fingers shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone onto the floor before I could force my thumb to hit redial. I pressed the receiver to my ear, counting the agonizing seconds of silence.

　　The line clicked open with a sharp burst of static.

　　"Father?" I whispered, my voice cracking. "Father, why are you calling me?"

　　"Nyra."

　　The voice that answered wasn't my father's deep, booming baritone. It was lower. Colder. It sent a shockwave of pure ice straight through my veins, freezing the blood in my tracks. It was Silas—my father's lethal, second-in-command.

　　"Silas?" I gasped, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. "Why do you have his phone? What's going on?"

　　"He's gone, Nyra," Silas said, his voice completely hollow, devoid of any comfort. "Your father was ambushed tonight. He is dead."

　　The world tilted violently beneath my feet. The walls of my safe, perfect bedroom felt like they were collapsing inward. My father was dead. The barrier protecting me from the criminal underworld was gone.

　　"No..." I breathed, tears finally pricking my eyes. "No, that's not possible. He's—"

　　"Listen to me very carefully," Silas interrupted, his tone urgent, clipping my words. "The syndicate is fracturing. The captains are already moving to seize the throne, and they know you are the sole heir to the empire. They are coming for you, Nyra. To kill you."

　　My hand went entirely numb. The phone slipped from my paralyzed palm, hitting the floor with a dull, final thud.