The Bath That Wasn't Hers
Valenhart Manor — Morning After
The footsteps of the maids made no sound.
Anna heard them before she saw them.
The two entered the bedroom first. Black uniforms, no expressions. They didn't speak. They only bowed their heads once and waited.
Two more stood at the door.
Anna sat on the edge of the bed, still in her silk robe. Her knees were pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them. The sheets were tangled behind her, the scent of last night still lingering in her skin, between her thighs.
Her body wasn't sore anymore.
It was unfamiliar.
As if it no longer belonged to her.
She didn't ask where they were taking her.
She just stood.
The robe clung to her bare skin, her hair a mess of soft tangles down her back.
She followed them down the stairs. Through long, echoing corridors. Past the towering stained glass windows and golden archways of Valenhart Manor.
Down into the private bath chamber.
The Chamber
It was circular.
Cathedral-like.
Lit with warm lanterns hung from carved brass sconces, casting soft light across the marble floor. The stained glass windows bled blue and crimson hues across the stone walls, shifting as the sun moved beyond the cliffs outside.
The bath at the center was ancient. Wide. Deep. Made of black-veined stone. Steam drifted above the surface. Rose petals floated across the water in delicate, artificial beauty.
It looked holy.
But to Anna—
It looked like a mausoleum.
The Undressing
The maids moved with elegant precision.
One untied the sash of her robe.
Another slipped it from her shoulders.
It fell silently to the floor.
She stood naked, exposed, her skin pale beneath the golden light.
No one reacted.
They didn't flinch when they saw the bruises— Dark along her hips. Faint fingerprints at her throat. A red curve where teeth had grazed bone. The swollen tenderness between her legs.
They said nothing.
Just as they'd been trained.
Anna didn't cover herself.
She didn't hide.
She was too tired.
Too distant from the body they stared at like ritual.
She stepped into the bath slowly.
The heat licked her skin.
Her breath hitched sharply as it rose past her knees. Then her hips.
It stung. Not because the water was too hot— Because her body remembered.
It remembered how he'd taken her.
How it had betrayed her.
How it had opened and begged, and how that made her hate herself more than him.
She sank beneath the water until it rose above her chest, her arms floating limp at her sides.
The rose petals brushed her skin like ghosts.
The Washing
Two maids knelt at the edge of the bath.
One lifted her hair gently, winding it into a knot atop her head.
Another dipped a copper bowl into the water and poured it slowly over her back.
She shivered.
It felt good.
Too good.
It made her want to cry harder.
A soft sponge was pressed to her arm.
Down her shoulders.
Over her stomach.
Then—
Between her thighs.
Anna flinched. Her body jerked. But she said nothing.
The maid didn't meet her eyes.
Didn't slow.
Just scrubbed carefully, gently—like washing away what had happened would somehow work.
But it wouldn't.
The heat of the water filled her lungs.
And something inside her…
Broke.
The Cry
It started in her throat.
A tightness. A catch.
She clenched her jaw.
Swallowed it down.
But the first tear slipped out anyway.
Then another.
And then more.
Silent. Shameful.
She turned her face toward the glass window—blue and red light spilling across her skin—and let the tears fall.
She cried without sound. Without sobs.
She cried like a woman who no longer knew if she was mourning a loss… Or accepting a fate.
The water blurred. The petals spun slowly around her. The world swayed with them.
But she didn't stop them.
Behind the Glass
Behind the one-way glass—
He watched.
Daimion stood with one hand resting on the sill.
His wine glass untouched on the table beside him.
His eyes fixed on her.
Every movement. Every flinch. Every moment she breathed and broke inside herself—
He saw it all.
At first, he felt satisfaction.
The kind of dark, bitter victory that comes with claiming something completely.
He had married her.
Fucked her.
Branded her.
She bore his name now. His scent. His mark.
And then—
She cried.
He froze.
Not because she screamed.
Not because she fought.
Because she didn't.
Because she just wept.
Softly.
Alone.
Like she didn't expect anyone to hear her.
Or save her.
Daimion's throat tightened.
The image of her naked in the water, hair slicked back, cheeks wet not from the bath but from grief—punched through the walls he'd built around himself.
She looked small.
Not weak.
Not broken.
But real.
More real than anything he'd ever touched in his life.
His hand closed into a fist.
Not in rage.
In restraint.
Something had shifted inside him. A cold echo of pain. A feeling he didn't want.
Was it guilt?
No.
It was the possession's cost.
He had taken everything. And now, for the first time… He wondered what he had left himself with.
The Exit
Anna didn't know he was there.
She never would.
And yet—
He turned before the bath ended.
Walked away down the corridor in silence.
Because if he stayed one more minute…
He might have walked in.
And held her.
And that wasn't what this was.
Not yet.
And he didn't know if he could survive that kind of weakness.
She sat in rose-petal water, her body clean, her soul stripped.
He walked away, the predator who finally realized— he might've fallen for the girl he broke
The Debut of the Possessed
Geneva – That EveningThe world was watching. And Anna was on display.
The Valenhart Gala shimmered like a mirage built for gods.
The ballroom was cathedral-high, lit by a thousand candles suspended in midair like floating fire. Gold dripped from the chandeliers. Violinists played Tchaikovsky in the corners. Crystal clinked like windchimes over polished marble.
Anna stood beside Daimion.
She wore silver.
A gown backless and tight, wrapped around her hips like his invisible grip. The fabric shimmered with every step she took—too long, too slow, her heels digging into bruised muscles. Her hair curled down one shoulder. Her lips painted red. Her lashes heavy with smoke.
She hadn't chosen a single thing.
He had chosen everything.
Even the way her body responded to silk—his silk.
Scene: The Puppet's Performance
She smiled when introduced.
Spoke when spoken to.
The words felt borrowed, floating out of a mouth that wasn't hers anymore.
"She's stunning." "So elegant." "Valenhart's new wife… what a creature."
She didn't respond to compliments. She didn't flinch at the lies.
But every step she took—
She felt him.
Still inside her.
The ache between her thighs pulsed with memory. Each polite gesture twisted her spine with the aftershock of ownership. She couldn't uncurl her toes in her heels. Couldn't forget the sound she made when he broke her open.
And worst of all—
She smiled so well, no one knew.
Scene: The Moment He Proves Ownership
At one point, while she was speaking with a Saudi prince's third wife, his hand slid across the small of her back.
Not hard.
Not rough.
Just… there.
Her spine snapped straight.
She gasped—so quiet no one noticed—but he did.
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear.
"Still sore?"
She didn't answer.
He didn't need her to.
"You should be," he murmured.
Then, louder—smoothly enough for those near them to hear:
"My wife prefers silence. She speaks when she needs to. But she listens to me always."
Laughter. Nods. Elegant smirks.
Everyone smiled.
So Anna did too.
Because what else could she do?
He lifted her hand. Kissed her knuckles.
The room clapped.
And she stood there.
Smiling.
While dying.
No one would save her. Not from him. Not from herself.
Later That Day — The First Glimpse
Private Jet to Monte Carlo — Late Afternoon
The jet was pure excess.
Polished mahogany trim. Black velvet seats. A bar stocked with vintage scotch older than most nations. Gold-rimmed glasses shimmered on trays. The hum of altitude pressed softly against the windows.
Anna sat across from Daimion.
Legs crossed.
Hands in her lap.
She wore blood red. Chosen by him. Of course.
Backless. Bare-shouldered. The neckline plunging. The slit up her thigh was so high it revealed the exact spot he had bitten two nights before — where a faint bruise now lived like a signature only he could see.
She said nothing.
Neither did he.
But his gaze devoured her like a starving animal that had already tasted the flesh and would never be satisfied with memory alone.
His eyes lingered at her thighs.
At her lips.
Then back to her throat—where the diamond collar kissed her skin like it missed his hand.
Like she belonged to him. Because she did.
Scene: The Reclaiming
When the jet hit altitude, he stood.
Walked to her slowly.
Silent.
She didn't move.
Just watched him, eyes narrowed. Body tense.
"You've been quiet," he murmured.
She didn't answer.
He reached down and touched her knee—lightly.
She flinched.
But didn't pull away.
His fingers slid up, slow, beneath the slit of her dress, finding the skin of her inner thigh.
"No panties," he observed, voice casual.
"You didn't give me any," she whispered, almost accusing.
He smiled.
"I know."
He dropped to one knee in front of her.
Right there in the private cabin, velvet carpet beneath them, her legs spread slightly, her dress pulled up around her hips.
She should have stopped him.
Should have kicked him. Screamed. Fought.
But she didn't.
Because part of her body was already burning.
From the look he gave her.
From the memory of the night before.
From the way her silence had become a yes.
"I should fuck you here," he murmured against her knee. "Just so you remember who you're showing off for tonight."
Her breath hitched.
His hand pressed further, fingertips sliding between her folds, already slick with heat.
She gasped. "Don't—"
He leaned forward and kissed the bruise he left on her thigh.
Then bit it again.
Harder this time.
She moaned.
Her head hit the back of the seat.
Her legs trembled as he licked her slowly, once.
"You think I forgot what this tastes like?" he growled. "You think I haven't been dreaming about ruining you again since the moment I stopped?"
He pushed two fingers inside her.
She nearly screamed.
Her hips bucked. Her back arched.
He stood quickly, towering over her now, hand still working between her legs.
"You're wet already."
"You made me—" she gasped.
"I always do."
He leaned down. His mouth brushed her ear.
"You could hate me with every breath, Anna. But your body begs to be mine."
She grabbed his wrist, trying to push him away.
But it was too late.
She came.
Hard.
Violent.
Breathless.
Her nails clawed into his arm.
She moaned through her teeth.
Eyes glazed.
His hand didn't move until her thighs stopped shaking.
Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers.
And licked them clean.
"You're mine again," he said softly. "And you'll keep proving it. Over. And over."
He kissed her forehead.
And walked back to his seat like nothing had happened.
She sat there in silence.
Legs parted.
Dress rumpled.
Breath catching in her chest.
And the ache between her thighs wasn't just physical.
It was emotional. Existential. It was the cost of belonging.