CHAPTER 139: CRUEL OR CRUELER?

Alexia – POV

He didn’t make love to me.

He fucked me.

At the counter. Hard. Ruthless. Like I was just a body. A hole. A thing to pour his hatred into.

I don’t know what hurt more—the way he took me like I was nothing, or the way I let him. Craved it. Welcomed it. Because for just those few minutes, he touched me like I still mattered. Like I was still his.

But it wasn’t love. God, no.

He never kissed me like he used to. Never whispered my name like it meant anything. He gripped me, used me, and came inside me like a man possessed. And then tossed me aside like trash.

"That meant nothing," he’d said.

The words hit harder than any slap.

I stood there for what felt like hours after he left the kitchen. My legs still shaking. My thighs sticky. My heart—shattered.

I wasn’t a fool. I knew the difference. Knew that wasn’t passion or tenderness. That was punishment. A reminder. Of who he thought I was. Of who I used to be.

And maybe I deserved it.

Maybe this was the price.

Because in a past life, I’d used him. Hurt him. Destroyed him.

Now the tables had turned.

I was the servant now. Scrubbing dishes with sore hands and a raw soul. Living under the roof of the man I once ordered around like he was dirt. The man I now loved so deeply, so stupidly, I couldn’t even breathe when he looked at me like I was the villain in his story.

And the worst part?

He was right.

I was the villain. In both lives. Just wearing a prettier face this time.

My knees finally gave out. I sank to the kitchen floor, my back against the cabinets, the pile of dishes still in the sink like some cruel reminder of the life I was living now. Of the life I deserved.

He didn’t make love to me.

He fucked me.

And part of me still clung to the memory like it meant something—because it was the only time he’d touched me since I woke up.

I hated myself for wanting more.

I should have stopped him.

God, I should have.

I knew it was too good to be true—the way he touched me, held me, wanted me. But my stupid, desperate body betrayed me the moment his hands landed on me. I melted. Moaned. Moved to his rhythm like I didn’t know better.

Like he still loved me.

But he didn’t.

He never kissed me like he used to. He didn’t say my name with tenderness. Just took. Consumed. Claimed. Rammed into me like he hated me—which he probably did.

And me?

I moaned for him with every thrust.

I still felt him inside me. Felt the ache, the stretch, the ruin. Like he branded me from the inside out. I’d never been touched like that before. Not by him. Not by anyone. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was fire and violence and heat. And I was burning alive.

And for one heartbreaking, beautiful moment, I thought this was it.

I thought this was the beginning of us crawling back to each other.

But no.

He used me.

Took me to the highest, most delirious heights of pleasure. Made me cry out for him like a prayer. And then left me to crash—cold, alone, humiliated.

"It meant nothing," he’d said.

Nothing.

The way he devoured me, tasted me, pressed his face between my thighs like he missed me? The way he gripped my hips like he’d die if I moved away? The way his voice broke when he groaned my name as he came?

None of it mattered to him.

But it mattered to me.

Stupid, stupid me.

I wanted to scream. Rip the skin from my bones. Because how could I still love him after this? How could I still want him, when he made it so clear that he wanted nothing from me but my body?

I curled up in bed that night, wearing nothing but the robe I’d managed to slip on after he left me at the counter like trash. My thighs still ached. My lips still tasted like him.

And my heart—my poor, pathetic heart—still hoped he’d come back.

He didn’t.

Of course he didn’t.

Because to him... I was just the ghost of the monster who once broke him.

And now, he was finally breaking me back.

Aiden’s POV:

I know I was a little tipsy. But gods—I remembered everything clearly.

Every sound she made. Every breath. Every damn clench of her around my fingers and cock.

Fuck.

She tasted like sin. Like some forbidden fruit I’d sworn I wouldn’t touch again but gorged on anyway, knowing damn well I’d burn for it.

And now here I was, pacing in my fucking room like a madman, running my hands through my hair for the hundredth time tonight.

It was taking everything in me not to go back to her room. Not to pull open that door, drag her out of bed, and bury myself inside her again like some damned addict chasing another high. Because I knew the second I saw her face, remembered the way she leaned into me like she wanted it just as badly—I’d give in.

Again.

God help me, I’d beg her if I had to.

But instead—I’d sneered.

I told her it meant nothing. That she needed to fulfill her wifely duties, and nothing more.

Like some smug, heartless bastard.

I said it because I was angry—at myself. Because I’d succumbed to her again. Because I couldn’t look at her and not want her, and that pissed me off more than anything else.

She wasn’t supposed to get under my skin anymore. I was done with her. She was a monster from my past, someone who had wronged me in a way that never stopped echoing. I was supposed to punish her—not crave her.

But her body... her eyes... the way she opened for me, like no one else existed in her world—fuck, it tore me open and I hated that it still meant something.

I’d told myself it was punishment. A hate fuck. Just physical.

Lie.

Because even now, every time I blinked, I saw her. Felt her. Heard her.

Her moans were a goddamn symphony stuck on loop in my mind. Her soft whimper when I bit her neck, the way her hands clutched at me like she was scared I’d disappear. And the moment she looked at me like she still loved me?

Yeah, that was the part that haunted me the most.

I poured myself a drink. Downed it. Slammed the glass on the marble counter harder than I should have.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

She was the villain. The cruel one. The monster in my nightmares.

So why the hell did I feel like I was the one falling apart now?

Why did it feel like one more night without her would fucking destroy me?

I don’t know when I fell asleep, but when I woke up, I was no longer in the present. I was back.

Back in that pathetic former life.

Back before my sister’s death.

Back when I was still just six months into my "service" in the palace—the one I’d been bought into like livestock, gifted to the princess by her father.

The scent of damp stone and burning torches filled the air. The palace loomed around me, all cold marble and silks and gold. Beautiful, maybe. But to me, it only ever reminded me of how little I had. How worthless I was.

I stood in the servants’ courtyard, heart pounding in my chest as I stared at Mira—my love.

She smiled at me, and for a fleeting moment, the whole world faded. That smile was everything. She wasn’t one of the princess’s personal attendants like I was, thank the gods. But she was still a slave. We both were. Property.

"I love you," I whispered, clutching her hands like they were my lifeline. "I don’t care what this place is, Mira. You’re everything to me."

She gasped softly, her cheeks flushing as she squeezed my fingers. "Aiden..."

And then—laughter.

Cruel. Sharp. Drenched in venom.

I turned instantly, every nerve in my body locking as I saw her.

Princess Alexia.

Standing at the top of the stone steps, wrapped in violet silk and dripping in gold. Her jewels sparkled in the torchlight, but it was her face that froze me—lips curled in disdain, eyes blazing with fury.

"My slaves dare to form attachments?" she sneered as she descended, each step deliberate. "How disgusting."

My fists clenched at my sides, rage boiling just beneath my skin. But I lowered my head. I knew better. I had no power here. I was nothing.

Serving her for the past six years had taught me one thing: a single wrong move could land you in the dungeon—or worse. I thanked every day that Mira and my sisters weren’t assigned to her chambers. Being near the princess was like living on a knife’s edge.

Alexia stopped in front of me, her perfumed hand lifting my chin with a single finger.

"My slaves are not meant to form silly strings of affection. Do you understand that?"

I clenched my jaw and nodded.

She turned to Mira next, her gaze darkening. "And you. You have no right to love. Certainly not each other."

"Please, Your Highness," Mira whispered, bowing low. "We meant no offense—"

"Silence."

Her voice was sharper than a blade.

Then she turned back to me. "Twenty strokes," she said coldly, her voice flat, bored. "Ten for her."

The world spun in my fury.

"Why?" I barked before the guards could restrain me. "She’s done nothing!"

Alexia smiled.

A twisted, cruel smile.

"Because I can."

The lashes that followed burned like fire. I didn’t scream. I wouldn’t give her that. But Mira... her cries echoed across the courtyard, slicing into me deeper than the whip ever could.

And then the princess laughed.

Laughed.

Enjoyed it.

Something inside me shattered.

"You will regret this," I hissed through gritted teeth, my body trembling with the force of my hate.

She tilted her head, her smirk deepening. "I don’t think I will."

—

I thought that was the end of my humiliation. But I underestimated her.

That night, guards dragged me into her chamber. I expected more pain. More lashes. Maybe execution.

What I didn’t expect... was worse.

She sat upon a velvet throne-like chair, one leg crossed over the other, sipping wine as if she hadn’t just ordered two people whipped for loving each other.

"If you want your precious Mira to live," she said with a purr, "then you’ll prove your affections are meaningless."

My blood ran cold. "What?"

She snapped her fingers.

The door opened, and several slave women were ushered in—naked, trembling, ashamed. Their eyes didn’t meet mine.

"You’ll take them," Alexia ordered casually, "right here. Right now."

I stared, horror rising in my throat. "No—"

"Or," she continued, her tone light and cruel, "I can have Mira executed instead. Or perhaps my guards might enjoy her company. They’ve been very loyal."

I looked at Mira—bound, on her knees at the side of the room, her eyes swollen with tears, her face white with terror.

"Aiden... please..." she whispered.

But what choice did I have?

I turned back to Alexia, fists clenched, rage vibrating through every limb.

I wanted to kill her.

Right there. Right then.

I wanted to tear her limb from limb.

But I couldn’t. Not yet.

So I stepped forward. Dead inside.

The first girl flinched when I reached for her. I hated her for being here. I hated myself more. Every touch, every thrust... wasn’t about lust.

It was punishment.

And Alexia watched. Smiling.

Mira sobbed behind me.

And I died a little more with every moment.

That night, I made a vow.

I will kill you, Alexia.

No matter how long it takes.

No matter where you hide.

I will destroy you.