15. Emilia

15

EMILIA

" A t least you don't berate me," I murmur to the gorgeous deep violet and red flowers as I pluck the stems from the ground.

It's a brilliantly sunny day, as it normally is on the desert island, but it's not blistering hot today. The rays feel warm and comforting on my skin and the light breeze fills my lungs with a much needed refreshing breath.

But that peace is short-lived. A prickle of unease trickles down my spine, and I get the distinct feeling of being watched. I lift my gaze and look around the courtyard, my eyes scanning the area until they land on Jurto. He stands at the edge, his eyes fixed on me, a curious intensity in his gaze.

My shoulders tense, but I force myself to keep trimming the stems. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. The flowers are delicate, and I focus on them, their vibrant colors a welcome distraction.

Jurto starts toward me, his strides long and deliberate. I can feel the weight of his presence growing as he approaches, but I keep my head down, refusing to acknowledge him until he speaks.

"What are you doing?" His voice is demanding, almost accusatory.

I lift my chin, meeting his gaze evenly. "I was instructed to gather flowers," I reply, my tone steady.

He narrows his eyes, clearly not satisfied with my answer. "And who gave you that instruction?"

"Marielle," I say, my voice unwavering even though I doubt he knows his servant's names. "She wants to make perfect centerpieces."

He regards me for a moment, his eyes searching mine for any sign of deceit. Finding none, he steps closer, his shadow falling over me and the flowers.

Scoffing, Jurto looms over me, his figure casting a long shadow that swallows the sunlight. "You only take orders from me now," he declares, his voice a low, threatening growl.

I fight to stay calm under his imposing presence, my fingers tightening around the stems of the flowers. I lift my chin slightly, meeting his stern gaze with as much composure as I can muster. "I apologize, Jurto," I say, forcing the words out, each one a bitter pill to swallow. "I wasn't aware of the change."

His eyes narrow, searching my face for any sign of rebellion. Holding his gaze, I do my best to maintain an appearance of meek submission. Inside, however, my defiant spirit simmers, threatening to boil over.

"See that it doesn't happen again," he warns, leaning in closer. His breath is hot against my skin, and I can feel the intensity of his scrutiny. "You belong to me, Emilia. Every command, every task—it comes from me."

"Yes, Jurto," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper. I know better than to challenge him outright, but my mind races with silent defiance. I will not let him break me.

He straightens up, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good," he says, as if the matter is settled. But I can see the curiosity in his eyes, the confusion that mirrors my own. Why does he feel the need to dominate me? What is it about me that stirs such a response in him?

I lower my gaze, returning my attention to the flowers. Their vibrant colors blur slightly as I focus on my breathing, trying to steady my racing heart. Jurto's presence is overwhelming, and I struggle to maintain my composure.

"I don't want to see you on your knees for anyone else," he rumbles deeply, almost like he didn't intend for me to hear. "Or you won't like the consequences."

Even though he's trying to bully me, I won't let him get the last word. "You know, Jurto," I say, my voice surprisingly calm, "if you'd just let me work in peace, you might be happier with the results that I can deliver."

His eyes darken, and I swear the air gets thicker between us as he answers, "But why would I do that when I can force you to your knees and watch you deliver the same results?"

For a brief moment, the idea of him forcing me before him, using me the way he wants to, letting out all that aggression that is building between us, makes my core throb. My pussy clenches and I have to squeeze my thighs together, shock tingling through me at my body's reaction to him.

He must see it because he shifts closer. "Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you?"

I scoff. "The only thing I'd like is for you to meet your end on that precious arena floor of yours."

His expression darkens, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against my skin. "You're treading on thin ice, Emilia. You think you're clever, talking back to me like this?"

I meet his gaze, my anger bubbling just beneath the surface, mingling with an unexpected surge of arousal. "I think I'm tired of the way you treat me."

Jurto's eyes flash with anger. He steps even closer, his towering presence intimidating, but I refuse to back down. The scent of him—leather and something raw—fills my senses, and I can't help the way my body reacts, my pulse quickening. "Watch your mouth," he growls. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

"Oh, I know exactly what you're capable of," I retort, the words spilling out before I can stop them. "I've watched it firsthand." And I have. I've watched his violence and anger and brutality bleed from him until I've forgotten to fear it.

Until I've started to crave it.

He sucks all the air from my lungs as he comes closer, my body remembering the last time we were this close in proximity and I gasp, my heart pounding in my chest. "And you think you're untouchable, don't you?" he hisses, his face inches from mine. "You think you can defy me without consequences?"

"I think I'm a person," I snap, my voice trembling with fury. "And I won't be treated like a piece of property."

Jurto's eyes blaze with anger. "You speak as if you're my equal," he sneers, his voice dripping with contempt.

"I speak as if I'm human," I respond, my voice steady despite the fear clutching at my heart. "Something you seem to have forgotten."

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the tension between us almost palpable. His gaze is intense, searching, and I can see the turmoil in his eyes. He's confused, perhaps even angry, but there's something else there—a flicker of something he doesn't quite understand.

His eyes narrow, and I can see the inner battle he's fighting. He wants to intimidate me, to see me cower, but my defiance only seems to fuel his confusion. "You're a stubborn fool," he mutters, but the words are huskier, like the insult means something else.

"Maybe," I reply, lifting my chin. "But I'm also resilient. And I won't break easily."

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, he lets out a low, humorless laugh. "Keep thinking that, Emilia."

I don't respond, unsure of what to make of his reaction. Instead, I turn back to the flowers, focusing on their delicate petals. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. The tension between us heightens, an invisible thread pulling us closer together despite our best efforts to resist it.

Finally, I glance back at him, about to demand what he wants. But Jurto's eyes flicker to the flowers in my hands, and without warning, he reaches out to take them from me.

I pull back instinctively, clutching the stems tighter. "These are for the dining hall," I say, my voice firm.

His eyes darken, and in a swift movement, he grabs my wrist. The sudden contact sends a jolt through me, and I gasp, my heart pounding in my chest. His grip is firm, but not painful, and his face is so close that I can feel his breath on my skin.

"What are you doing?" I whisper, my voice trembling slightly. The warmth of his hand seeps through me, igniting a fire that I can't ignore.

And I'm starting to realize that I'd let it consume me and burn me alive…

I haven't stopped thinking about how it felt when he bent me over in the kitchen, for him to let out all those frustrations on me with actions rather than his words. I didn't feel like dirt then. I felt like his little whore, to be used for his pleasure, and I fucking liked it. I must be sick to want that, to want him to claim control I refuse to give and wring orgasms from my body like he needs them to live.

I don't want him to like me. I don't even care that he hates me…that much.

But I want another taste of this man.

And as I stare up at him, his massive hand wrapped around my wrist, I wait for the sharp words that will only stir up the frenzy in me, already wanting the release only he can give me. Only after he works me up into a red-hazed level of anger will he rip my very soul from my body and as much as I hate him and me for it…

I want him to do it to me again and again until the pleasure bleeds the loathing from my limbs.