Ashley's POV:
( Continuation of last chapter)
Roman ignored her, eyes locked on the screen, his jaw tightening just enough to betray the faintest irritation.
When he spoke, his tone was casual—too casual—like he was ordering wine at a restaurant.
"Leo? I have a job for you. Yes, a simple cleanup. The Bennett family. Choose the weakest one. Make it quick—but make it messy. Ensure there are no survivors."
The name Bennett detonated in the air. Ashley's body went rigid, the word echoing through her skull like a death knell.
Her defiance shattered in an instant.
This wasn't humiliation.
This was extinction.
My caring is his weapon.
All the pain in her body was swallowed by a single, freezing thought: her family was about to die.
She didn't wait for him to hang up. The realization tore through her—I have no choice. She slid off the bed, knees hitting the cold floor with a hollow crack.
Every movement sent knives of pain through her, but she clung to it—it was the only thing that made her feel real.
She crawled forward, trembling, dragging herself to him, clutching the dark, expensive fabric of his trousers like a lifeline.
Her voice broke as she screamed,
"No! Roman, stop!"
Her words came out raw, soaked in blood and tears. "Please, Roman. Please don't do this. You win. I give up. My pride means nothing. My life means nothing. Take it. Take me. But not them. Please. They're innocent. I'll do anything. Anything you ask. I am yours. I belong to you. Just call Leo back. Please—please—tell him to stop!"
Her voice disintegrated into sobs, the sound of her soul tearing open.
She pressed her forehead against his leg, clutching him as if he were the cliff and she the fall.
Roman stood motionless. But inside, something twisted. His nostrils flared as he looked down at her—this fragile, trembling thing that had once defied him.
The sharp lines of his face softened for a heartbeat. Guilt flickered in his chest, foreign and unwanted. He crushed it quickly beneath a darker satisfaction.
His lips parted slightly—he inhaled slowly, the way a starving man breathes before taking a bite.
The sight of her surrender hit him harder than he expected. Triumph… yes. But also something heavier. Possession. Guilt. Love, poisoned by power.
He crouched down, moving slowly, the shadow in his eyes deepening.
His hand hovered above her neck, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he finally gripped it, firm and claiming. He forced her chin up, making her meet his gaze.
Her eyes were wild, shimmering with terror and pleading.
His were darker—molten steel softening at the edges, full of conflicting currents: hunger, remorse, need."You are finally learning, moya zvezda," he whispered, his voice a dangerous blend of tenderness and ownership.
He didn't look away as he lifted the phone and, still staring into her shattered eyes, murmured one word: "Cancel."
The sound of it was brutal in its simplicity.
Silence expanded, heavy and suffocating. Roman's shoulders eased, the tension draining slightly, and a tremor of relief ghosted across his face before vanishing. Ashley froze, her sobs fading into breathless disbelief.
He dropped the phone onto the bed, then spoke softly—too softly. "There, there, moya zvezda (my star) . Did you think I'd let you destroy yourself for a lie? The Bennetts are safe."
His voice warmed, low and velvety, almost gentle—but his eyes betrayed him. Beneath the calm, guilt and hunger warred.
He brushed a thumb across her damp cheek, lingering as if to erase the evidence of what he'd done.
"I keep my promises," he murmured. "And now, you've kept yours. You've surrendered. Completely."
His voice deepened, the softness dissolving into something possessive, hungry. "Now you understand obedience. You know what defiance costs. Remember that, sunbeam. Next time, I won't listen to your pleas."
Ashley's body gave out, collapsing against his leg. The sound that escaped her wasn't quite a sob—it was the hollow exhale of someone who had lost everything.
Roman's throat worked as he swallowed hard. A flicker of guilt crossed his face again—gone as quickly as it came.
He reached out, brushing her hair back with almost paternal care, then gathered her into his arms.
He carried her to the bed with reverent slowness.
The cruelty that had driven him moments ago bled into something softer, almost mournful.
Sitting beside her, he wiped the grime and blood from her face, the motions tender, meticulous. His hands shook once—barely perceptible—and then steadied.
"I did this for you," he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of his own lie. "Because I love you. And love requires obedience. Total devotion. I can't have you distracted by their insignificant lives. Your focus must be on us—on me. You must look perfect for the cage you've chosen."
He paused, staring at her face, pale and still.
Something flickered in his eyes—pain, maybe. Or regret. He crushed it again, his features hardening into resolve.
"The price of their survival is simple," he said, voice low but steady. "You will never leave me. You will never defy me. You'll be my wife, my muse, my obsession. You will stop pretending you hate me. You will love me as I love you—completely, absolutely, without thought for anyone else."
He leaned down, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to her bloodless lips.
His eyes closed as if to hide from himself. "You are mine, Ashley. And I am yours. Forever. Now rest, my love. The lesson is over."
He stayed until her breathing evened out, the tiny tremors in her body fading into exhausted stillness. Then he stood, chest tight with something he refused to name.
From the bathroom, he retrieved a cooling ointment.
When he returned, his expression was unreadable—his eyes darker now, not with rage but with remorse.
He lifted the duvet, turned her gently onto her stomach, and began applying the salve to her bruised skin with slow, deliberate care.
Each motion was an apology he would never speak aloud.
When he was done, he covered her carefully, brushing his fingers over her hair in a ghost of tenderness.
He watched her for a long, heavy moment, his face unreadable except for the soft, hollow ache in his eyes.
Then, with a quiet exhale, he pressed a final kiss to her damp cheek—and left the room.
______________________________________________________________________
Author's Note:
So… yeah. That happened. 💀
Roman really said "love language: psychological warfare" and meant it. Ashley said "I can fix him" and the universe said "try therapy first, babe."
If you made it through this chapter without needing emotional support snacks, congratulations — you're either numb inside or Roman-coded (in which case, please stay 50 feet away from everyone).
This was the point of no return — the moment love stopped being a word and became a weapon. From here on, we're knee-deep in devotion, damnation, and a love story that should probably come with a warning label and a priest on standby.
Anyway, hydrate. Stretch your emotional damage muscles. The next chapter only gets worse.
-Vaanni🖤