Ashley's POV:
The hours that followed the forced meal were a blur of shame and cold. The weight of the chain was a constant, physical reminder of my new reality. I huddled against the wall, conserving the meager energy he had forced into me.
I must have dozed off again, because the next time the lock slid open, my head snapped up violently, and the light felt like a physical blow.
Roman entered, and this time, he wasn't carrying a tray of food.
He was carrying a small, silver utility case—the kind a doctor or a technician might carry—and a thin, black length of cable. The light glinted wickedly off the case's metal clasp.
I scrambled back, dragging the chain until the cuff cut painfully into my skin. "Stay away from me! What are you doing?"
He ignored my panic, moving with that calm, lethal efficiency that stripped away my defiance. He crouched just outside my three-foot radius, opened the case, and pulled out a clean cloth, a small bottle of antiseptic, and a low, humming device that looked like a soldering iron but thicker, with a perfectly formed metal stamp at its tip.
The realization hit me like a physical punch, freezing the air in my lungs.
No. He wouldn't.
He stood up and took a deliberate step inside my circle. I pressed my back hard against the concrete, shaking my head frantically.
"I need to make this permanent, Ashley," he said, his voice low and utterly fixated. "I marked you on your neck before, but that fades. This is for eternity."
He reached out and grabbed the front of my shirt, ripping the thin fabric down to the collarbone. My breath hitched on a sob. I tried to cover myself, but he grabbed my hands, pinning them against the wall beside my head. The cold of the concrete was a pathetic contrast to the heat of his skin.
"Be still, moya zvezda," he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "Every hour you were away from me was agony, a hole in my chest that only you can fill. You think I would ever allow another man to claim a single glance of you? You are my orbit, Ashley. You are my reason for breathing. I built this hell to keep you safe from the world that ruined us."
His voice dropped to a choked certainty, thick with psychotic obsession. "This mark isn't just to show ownership. It's to tell the world, 'She is Roman's creation, and no one else will dare to touch her, or they answer to me.' This is proof that what I lost, I claimed back—forever."
He didn't hurt my hands; he just immobilized them. Then, with unnerving precision, he used the antiseptic cloth to wipe the area just above my collarbone, the smooth, pale skin where my neck met my chest. The chill of the alcohol made me shiver.
"Please," I whispered, the sound a ragged plea. "Stop. Please, Roman. Don't do this."
He didn't look at my face. His attention was solely on the skin he was about to defile.
He picked up the humming device. A tiny, faint wisp of smoke curled off the metal stamp.
My heart was a piston, slamming against my ribs. I screamed, a high, desperate sound that the basement swallowed instantly.
He pressed the metal down.
The pain was instantaneous, blinding, and absolute. It was a searing, agonizing, deep-tissue burn that stole my vision. I arched off the floor, fighting his grip with the frenzied strength of pure agony. My legs kicked against the chain, the metal cuff biting into my ankle, but the pain of the brand was all-consuming.
He held the stamp for only three seconds, but it felt like an eternity compressed into a moment of pure, white-hot horror.
He pulled the device away. The basement filled for a sickening moment with the acrid scent of burnt flesh.
He released my hands. I collapsed into a shaking, sobbing heap, clutching the raw, throbbing skin above my collarbone. The pain was too deep, too violating.
Roman set the device back in the case with unsettling care. Instead of rising, he shifted, scooping me up from the cold floor. He pulled my trembling body into his lap, settling my head against his chest, right over the steady, slow thump of his heart. The contrast between the cold metal in his hands moments ago and the sickening warmth of his body now completely overwhelmed me.
He gently placed a cold, sterile gauze pad over the fresh wound, but his gaze was fixed on my face.
"Shh, malen'kaya," he murmured, his voice a low, deep rumble of unnatural tenderness. He pressed my face into his shirt, shielding me from the sight of the room. "It's done now, my love. It's done. I had to do it. You see this mark?" He pulled the gauze slightly away and touched the side of the burn with infinite gentleness. "It is not a scar, Ashley. It is beautiful. It is the signature of our eternity."
I continued to shake, unable to stop the torrent of terror and pain. "Why... why did you do that?" I choked out, my voice muffled against his chest.
He didn't answer with words. He leaned down, placing a soft, possessive kiss directly on my forehead, then tracing a path down to the corner of my eye, kissing the hot, salty tears. I was crying too hard to fight, my body just a vibrating mess of shock and agony.
He showered my face in light, feather-soft kisses—on my temples, my cheekbones, the tip of my nose—all while rocking me gently. He was trying to soothe the pain he had just caused, and the horrific dual reality of the monster and the lover made my mind short-circuit. I couldn't process him.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, holding my jaw so I had to meet his eyes. "It's just a mark, Ashley. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever given you. It means no one can ever take you from me again."
He pressed his lips to my own, a slow, gentle kiss that felt utterly detached from the violence of the last few minutes. When he pulled back, he smoothed my hair away from my face.
"Sleep now, Ashley," he repeated, his tone almost soothing, utterly convinced he had just done something necessary and kind. "Heal. When I return, we will finally begin our life together."
He didn't wait for a reply. He carefully lowered me back onto the cold concrete, his gaze lingering on the gauze on my chest for a moment longer than necessary, a look of profound, dark satisfaction on his face. He simply walked out, the heavy door groaning shut, the bolt sliding home.
I curled into a ball, my body shaking, the throbbing pain from my chest joining the dull aches in my wrists and ankle. He had branded me, then held me like a doll, trying to kiss the pain away. I didn't hate him with the same clarity I had before. Now, I was just terrifyingly, utterly confused. He was broken, and his brokenness had claimed me.
________________________________________________________________________________
Author's Note:
Okay babes, welcome to that chapter — you know, the one where Roman woke up and said, "What if I committed eight war crimes before breakfast?" 😭
🔥 Ashley is out here collecting injuries like they're limited-edition merch, and Roman?
He's just speed-running "Worst Boyfriend of the Year" like it's a competitive sport.
Honestly, if I were kidnapped and someone pulled out a stainless-steel mystery box, I'd simply pass away on sight. 💀✨
But not Ashley. My girl is built different (mostly trauma now, but still).
Anyway, hydrate, stretch, and prepare mentally — it only gets more chaotic from here. 😌
P.S- Don't tell me I didn't warn you earlier... ;)
-Vaanni🖤