Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter XLIV - THE BLOW

"P-Please..." Her voice was low, husky, trembling with need, as she writhed beneath him. Her long fingernails grazed his chest, drawing lines of fire across his skin. His eyes were a storm of lust and fury. He tore her clothes apart, the fabric ripping like paper, and Gabrielle cried out as his teeth sank into her collarbone.

"Nobody could love you better than I do... we both know that, Gabby," he whispered, his tongue tracing the sensitive curve behind her ear.

"Please..." she begged, palms pressing against his chest, but he pinned her wrists above her head. One hand moved to her hips, dragging the hem of her underwear down in a slow, torturous tease.

"Promise me you'll forget him... promise me you're mine alone, Gabby," he growled, his voice rough, almost breaking with restraint.

Her eyes, misted with tears, refused him a word. Her fists clenched, twisting helplessly beneath him.

"Promise me!"

"Ryan... please..." His flinch at her words was sharp, visceral—like a dagger to his chest.

The video. He'd seen it. The bastard, violating her, taking what was his. And she... she didn't fight him. Not on that screen.

"Do you like our little love story, Vincent Walton?" the bastard's voice sneered through the phone.

Vincent's hands trembled—not from desire, but from rage. The phone went flying across the room, shattering against the wall, echoing the cracks in his heart.

Gabrielle had been different since returning from New York. Paranoid. Distant. Avoidant. Afraid to meet his gaze, to let him touch her. She'd acted as if he were poison.

Two nights ago, he'd found her sleeping alone, hugging herself. He had leaned in to kiss her, only to stop when he saw the marks on her chest. Not bruises. Love bites.

Now he knew the truth.

Now he knew why she'd avoided him.

Now he knew why she hadn't called.

Now he knew everything.

The bastard had her. Had used her. And now he threatened to use her again, to blackmail them with intimate recordings.

Vincent's chest tightened, his blood boiling, every muscle taut with fury. He could picture the bastard's smug face, the way he would have lingered on her, the way he would have whispered vile lies.

"I will kill you!" he screamed to the empty room. "I will tear you apart!"

The world blurred. Rage, pain, betrayal—each sensation overlapped, a storm inside him.

The whisky burned going down, but not enough to numb him. Not enough to drown the images seared into his mind: her lips, her body, her pleas.

Finally, he arrived outside their bedroom door.

"How can I tell him... how can I hurt him...?" Her voice floated to him, small and trembling.

He could hear her crying, pleading. She was killing him slowly with every word.

He turned the doorknob, and there she was, sitting in a bathrobe, her face wet with tears, hastily wiped away. She had ended the call, but the phone lay on the table, silent and accusing.

His jaw tightened. One wrong move, and everything would shatter.

"Vince..." she whispered, trembling as he approached. His eyes were red, sharp, filled with a storm she couldn't survive.

The whisky bottle hit the floor with a crash as he threw it, sending shards scattering across the room.

He must have known.