Betrayed By Him, Saved By His Uncle

Clara hit the bed hard, bouncing on the soft mattress. Before she could push up, a heavy shadow crashed down, pinning her completely. She opened her mouth to scream. Hot, ragged lips crushed hers, swallowing the sound. She thrashed wildly. Her hands clawed in the dark. Her nails scraped across a broad back and met sticky, wet warmth. Blood. The man grunted, low and rough. The pain only drove him wilder. He grabbed both her wrists with one hand and pinned them above her head. His strength was terrifying. He moved on pure, mindless instinct. Clara realized his skin burned against hers. He had been heavily drugged. He ripped her trench coat open. His burning mouth trailed down her neck. Clara twisted, tears sliding into her hair. "Let me go... please..." she sobbed against his skin when he paused to breathe. The drug had stolen his mind. Fabric tore. He ripped her underwear away. A sharp, searing pain tore through her. She arched up and sank her teeth into his shoulder. His muscles locked. His throat worked against her skin. A deep growl rumbled from his chest, and he took her with even more brutal force. Time blurred. Pain swallowed everything. The scent of cedarwood and blood seared itself into her memory. Eventually, the violent movements stopped. The heavy body collapsed on her. His breathing evened out. He had passed out. Ignoring the pain stabbing through her bones, Clara slid out from under him, terrified of making a sound. She crawled on the floor, searching for her clothes. Her fingers hit something sharp. She hissed as it sliced her fingertip open. In her panic, her platinum bracelet caught on the metal carving of the bed frame. She yanked free. The clasp snapped. The bracelet vanished into the thick carpet. Voices sounded in the hallway. Security checking the breakers. The power would return any second. Clara grabbed her trench coat, wrapped it around her naked, bruised body, and ran out barefoot. She sprinted down the hall. The moment she crashed through the fire door, the lights blazed back on. The sudden brightness stung her eyes. She leaned against the stairwell wall. She stared at her arms, the bruises and dark marks scattered across her skin. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks. She forced herself upright. Dragging her heavy legs, she climbed back to the presidential suite. Every step was a reminder of the two hells she had survived tonight. The suite was empty. Julian wasn't back. She let out a small breath. She went into the bathroom, turned the shower to the hottest setting, and stood under the scalding water. She scrubbed her skin violently, trying to wash away the stranger's scent. The mirror fogged over. Clara wiped it and stared at her reflection. Tangled dark hair. Red-rimmed eyes. The despair in her expression slowly hardened into cold, sharp ice. She grabbed the first aid kit, bandaged her bleeding finger, and applied thick layers of concealer over her neck and collarbones. She changed into a long-sleeved, high-necked silk pajama set. The ruined trench coat and torn wedding dress went into a garbage bag, hidden at the bottom of her suitcase. Just as she zipped the suitcase, the front door clicked open. Julian walked in, humming. Clara dove into bed, turned her back, and squeezed her eyes shut. Under the blanket, her hands curled into fists. Julian walked to the edge of the bed. The overwhelming smell of fresh body wash radiated off him. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Honey, are you asleep? Sorry, I ran into some old friends." His gentle voice made her stomach heave. She pretended to stir. "Exhausted. My head is killing me," she rasped, shifting away from his touch. Relief flickered across his face. He turned and walked into the bathroom. In the dark, Clara opened her eyes. Cold. Hard. The woman who had walked down the aisle yesterday was gone. She would make them both pay.