Dangerous Melodies - Chapter 35: Chapter 35

MARCOS
I sat in the back of my sleek black SUV, Seattle’s city lights slicing across the windows, brief flashes catching on my hands as I scrolled through my phone.
Dante Kincade’s expression flashed in my mind: cool, composed, exactly what I needed him to be. He’d claimed he was looking for Marisol too, and I believed him.
Why wouldn’t I? Especially after her little performance humiliating him for all the world to see. We both had something to gain by finding her.
He’d followed through, just like he said he would. He handed over a location without hesitation.
His message had been brief. Cold.
Your turn.
She’s waiting. Address below.
No explanation. No demand. Just a neat little handoff like we were still playing by rules.
For a second, I almost respected it. Dante was a craftsman of torture. If he’d taken his pound of flesh first, I only hoped he’d left enough of her for me.
The SUV slowed as we turned onto a silent street.
I stepped out, the night damp and still. Buttoned the jacket of my suit with calm.
Then I started walking.
The industrial building sat in the shadows ahead, quiet and unassuming. The kind of place no one looked at twice.
But as I got closer, everything inside me began to still.
The place was dead. Lights off. Windows dark. Not even a whisper of movement.
My men, stationed all around, had nothing to report.
She wasn’t here.
The phone vibrated again.
I looked, expecting an update. Final confirmation.
Instead, the image on screen made my vision narrow.
A marriage certificate.
Today’s date.
Dante’s name.
And the message: She’s under my protection now.
Attached was his offer. Some noble-sounding bullshit about making peace, offering access to any of his services, his tech, whatever I needed, free of charge, no strings attached.
I stared at the screen. The street went silent. My thoughts did too.
He fed me a fantasy, wrapped in deception, and laughed while I swallowed it whole.
I let out a breath, slow and uneven, then hurled the phone to the ground. It shattered on impact, pieces scattering across the pavement.
She married him.
My breath turned sharp, serrated. Everything inside me burned too hot to contain.
Marisol hadn’t just walked away. She’d spat on everything we were.
She’d chosen him. The one man who dared to stand in my path.
The insult cut deep. Too deep.
I turned.
Walked toward the alley behind the SUV where two of my men stood watch.
They stiffened when they saw me.
“Sir?”
The first bullet tore through his chest before he could speak.
The second man reached for his gun, too slow.
I shot him in the leg, then again, and again, unloading the entire clip into both of them until the slide locked back and the gun clicked uselessly in my hand.
Still, I pulled the trigger.
Once.
Twice.
Until my arm trembled.
Until there was nothing left but the sound of my breath, ragged and furious in the silence.
Blood misted the wall. Silence followed. Not a scream. Not a sound.
My chest heaved. I stood there huffing, sweat cold on my skin, heat buzzing beneath it like electricity.
I reloaded. Each click of the magazine slid into place with purpose. Precision. Control trying to crawl its way back in.
The rage didn’t fade. It settled into me, cold and final.
“Let her hide behind him, for now,” I muttered.
“She was promised to me. Dante can try, but in the end, he’ll only hold her ashes.”
The thought of him touching her—
My stomach knotted, bile thick in my throat.
No one else gets to claim her. She belongs to me.
She’ll tremble. She’ll beg. She’ll scream.
I exhaled hard, forcing the heat back into my bones, then turned and walked toward the SUV.
The driver opened the door without a word. I slid inside, the blood still pounding behind my eyes.
“Roll out,” I said. “Now.”
The convoy moved, tires whispering against wet pavement as the city swallowed us whole.
My mind pulled me back to that day in Roberto’s study.
She screamed. She fought. That fire in her eyes made it all the sweeter.
She refused me. Said she’d never marry a monster.
Her words didn’t sting. They amused me.
She thinks she has a choice.
Her refusal wasn’t a loss. It was the beginning of something better.
My game.
And I always won.
I saw her again, in my memory, the exact moment her father’s fist struck her across the face. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and final.
She crumpled like a doll, her body folding in on itself.
I didn’t flinch. I’d only smiled.
It had been the natural order. A reminder of where true power lived.
When I lifted her limp body, her skin warm against my arm, something settled deep inside me. Satisfaction.
There was no part of her I wouldn’t shape.
Her body, will, and fate were all mine.
The universe had delivered her, exactly as it should have.
Roberto and I waited in the dingy basement, the air heavy with the stench of damp stone and unspoken violence.
Marisol had been defiant, her chin high even with fear dancing in her eyes. But that resolve, that pride, would shatter quickly under my punishment.
I laid her across the bench, slack and unconscious. Roberto stood beside me, silent.
She won’t have to stand. Sitting is a mercy I’ll allow my future wife.
I didn’t rush. There was no need. The claiming wasn’t about flesh; it was about imprinting my presence on every part of her.
Mind, body, memory.
I adjusted her limbs, shifting her until she straddled the bench. Then I lifted her arms and eased her forward against the post. Her head lolled, legs dangling.
“Hold her,” I said.
Roberto stepped in, steadying her without a word. His hands were firm. Practiced. Indifferent.
I tied the bindings tight, wrist by wrist, her spine bowing slightly as the last knot cinched into place.
Her shirt tore easily in my grip, the seams giving way without resistance. I didn’t look at her body with hunger, I looked with intent.
She’s already mine. I’ll take her later. Today is about branding her.
Her submission was inevitable.
My palm drifted down, claiming her skin with a twisted sense of ownership. Her body was a canvas, waiting for my mark, for the scars that would tell her exactly who held control.
As she stirred awake, a wave of anticipation surged through me, threaded with impatience.
I want the fight. I crave it. But it won’t last long. She’ll break. It’s her fate.
Realization dawned as she registered the restraints, her body straining against the bonds.
A whimper broke from her lips, followed by a choked plea. “Please... don’t.”
But mercy had never been part of this.
Her wrists pulled tight, back bare, vulnerable. The first strike cracked through the stillness, raising welts on unmarked skin.
A gut-wrenching scream tore from her throat. Her body convulsed in pain, jerking against the post.
I laughed, sharp, unrestrained, victorious.
Each lash was a lesson, a command. Resistance meant pain. Surrender was her only option.
I drank in the moment, savoring the way I shaped her.
She has to learn.
I was restoring what was rightfully mine. The sounds of her pain fed something dark inside me, each cry another piece of myself falling into place.
This is how it’s meant to be.
Her cries were a symphony. Every calculated strike sent a jolt through her body. The flogger moved with purpose, guided by my will.
Each blow chipped away at her, crafted to break her.
“Daddy,” she whispered, barely audible, a desperate plea, more breath than voice.
Roberto stepped forward, circled slowly until he stood in front of her. She lifted her head with effort, eyes swollen, mouth trembling.
I watched him closely, studying the shift in his face as he looked at her, watching as the last remnants of fatherhood bled from his expression.
“You were never mine,” he said coldly. “Just a bastard child your mother brought with her. I tolerated you for her sake. She’s gone now. So is my reason for pretending you matter.”
He leaned in, voice low and final. “You will marry Marcos and merge our families together whether you want to or not.”
A broken sob slipped from her lips, not pain this time, but something quieter. Hollow. Surrender.
The shock on her face satisfied me.
Her world cracked open in real time. She’d always believed she mattered to him.
Now, she knew. She didn’t. And I welcomed that deeper wound.
Pain fades. Betrayal lingers. That’ll break her faster.
With each lash, her defiance weakened. The moments stretched, elongated by the weight of my control.
I watched the resistance unravel, piece by piece, stripped from her with every strike.
Her tears and pleas filled the room, trembling from her like music. Every tremor in her limbs, every breath dragged through her throat, poured straight into the darkest part of me.
I wasn’t just breaking her body. I was reshaping her soul.
Eventually, her body sagged against the restraints. Unconscious.
A flicker of disappointment passed through me.
Too soon. She gave out too soon.
But I stepped back anyway, taking in the full picture.
She was mine. Then. Now. Always.
In her defeat, I saw more than just control. I saw victory. Mind, body, and soul: claimed.
She was the perfect symbol of my dominance. Her bloodied, limp body stirred something deeper.
God, she’s beautiful like this.
With her laid bare before me, the full weight of my desire pressed down. My eyes drank her in, broken and defenseless.
Power surged through me, not from her beauty, but from the control, the absolute stillness of her beneath my hand.
Beside me, Roberto turned and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him. He knew what this moment meant.
She’s broken. I won.
I didn’t touch her. I didn’t need to. The hunger had built, sharp and unrelenting. It wasn’t lust; it was victory.
That final, brutal sense of dominance, unchallenged and complete. My release came hard, fast, wrenched from nothing but power and control, a high I hadn’t tasted in years.
She belongs to me. She understands that now.
When I stepped back, I studied her. Blood streaked her back, smeared by sweat and the force of every strike.
She was a masterpiece, broken, marked, shaped. Now she bore the final touch: my signature.
Not of desire, but of control. Of ownership. A brutal brand of my mastery.
That memory, the sense of domination it gave me, was something I would always cherish.
It hadn’t been just about her submission. It had been about the unshakable claim I’d laid on her. A claim no one could ever challenge.
But that was then.
Now, that same girl had defied me again.
She’d chosen another man.
The betrayal twisted in my gut, sharper than anything that came before.