The Don's Accidental Bride

Elena's POV

I was lying on a soft bed, surrounded by pitch blackness, when the man pressing down on me suddenly slapped his palm against my clit, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain that made my spine arch off the bed.

Jesus Christ, what kind of whore gets off on having her pussy spanked like this?

But there I was, fisting the sheets, head thrown back, panting through parted lips that refused to close.

His hand, tough and unyielding, slid leisurely up my body. In an instant, his fingers circled my throat.

The pressure was perfect, just enough to make breathing a struggle while keeping me tethering on the edge.

My pussy clenched around nothing, slick and desperate.

God, it felt incredible.

My vision blurred as oxygen deprivation pulled me under. I clawed at his wrist instinctively, thrashing like I was drowning.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled near my ear.

Bastard.

He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he was enjoying every second of watching me fall apart.

His grip loosened, and before I could catch my breath, he grabbed my wrist and guided my hand down to something thick, hard, and scorching hot.

The moment my fingers wrapped around his shaft, my brain short-circuited.

Holy shit.

This thing was massive—inhumanly so.

"Fuck, you're dripping," his breath hot and teasing against my ear. "Your pussy ready for me, baby?"

My core throbbed with need, empty and aching.

I shifted my hips toward him without thinking, my mind a haze of alcohol and lust.

This was it—I was actually going to lose my virginity to this stranger.

Could I even take something this size?

The head of his cock pressed against my entrance, and I could feel the heat radiating from him—

"Ah!"

A sharp, vicious pain tore through my thigh like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.

The pleasure evaporated instantly.

Of all the fucking times for my old injury to flare up.

"What's wrong?" He froze.

The emptiness where his cock had been was unbearable, but the pain demanded attention.

I reached down to massage my thigh and accidentally grabbed his dick again.

His hand shot out, catching my wrist.

"Greedy girl," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement.

The pain, the alcohol, the raw desire—it all crashed over me at once, dragging me down into unconsciousness.

My head was killing me.

I woke up with my skull pounding like a drum.

Fragments of last night trickled back to me, and I realized the headache stemmed from the hangover.

Still, how could I have passed out purely from leg pain?

Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.

I pressed my fingers to my temples and surveyed the damage: empty whiskey bottles littering the black marble bar, suspicious white stains on the leather couch.

The liquor cabinet was practically bare.

Christ, how much did I drink?

My brain started replaying highlights against my will—the lace blindfold, the rope burns, his cut V-line, those rock-hard abs, the way his chest felt under my palms.

And that cock.

That ridiculously huge cock.

What the hell was wrong with me?

This had to be residual alcohol poisoning talking.

When I got out of bed, I knocked something off the nightstand—an unopened box of condoms clattered to the floor.

I picked it up, staring at the intact packaging.

So we didn't actually fuck?

A relieved sigh escaped me.

Thank God.

That bastard must have pissed me off so badly that I got blackout drunk and ended up with a male escort.

At least we didn't go all the way.

Why the hell would I throw away my virginity over some worthless piece of shit?

As I stretched, something caught my eye—a sleek black business card with gold embossing sitting on top of my discarded bra.

Male escorts were handing out corporate business cards now?

I ignored it, threw on my clothes, and bolted.

The last thing I needed was a recap of last night's humiliation from the guy who witnessed it all.

My phone—which I'd turned off last night—sat on the floor.

The second I powered it on, ninety-nine-plus missed calls flooded the screen.

Mom.

Of course.

She couldn't go five minutes without tracking my location.

Last night not coming home and ghosting her calls must have sent her into a full meltdown.

My stomach dropped.

I needed to get home before this got worse.

Half an hour later, I pulled into the driveway of my home, the engine still running, and spotted Mom heading toward me with pruning shears in hand, fresh from attacking the rose bushes.

"Elena! Where the hell were you last night?"

Here we go.

I pressed my hand to my forehead, waving her off.

"Nowhere. Just pulled an all-nighter at the office."

Her eyes went wide.

Shit.

My sleeve had ridden up, exposing the red marks on my forearm—evidence from last night.

I yanked my arm down and tugged at the fabric.

She wasn't letting this go.

"Elena! You know you can't get hurt!"

And there it was.

The same lecture I'd been hearing since I was five.

Don't run, don't play rough, don't do anything that might result in injury—because God forbid something happened to the precious Rh-negative blood supply.

I forced down the tremor running through my body and spread my hands, demanding an answer.

"If you care about me so much, why did you do that in the first place?"

The concern vanished from my mother's face in an instant, replaced by eyes widening with indignation.

"If I hadn't done that, Sabrina would have been upset. You know I'd do anything to make her happy."

Of course. How utterly predictable.

I bit down hard on my lip and turned my gaze toward the roses blooming vivid and proud in the garden. Sometimes I think I rank lower in this household than those damned flowers—at least mother tends to them with genuine care every single day.

Yes, those roses. They've been my companions since I was five, following us even through moves. Never mind that I'm allergic to them. Sabrina loves them, and that's all that matters.

"Are you listening to me?" Mother's voice cut through my thoughts. "This weekend is Sabrina's birthday. She deserves a grand party and an extraordinary gift."

"I'll remember," I said flatly.

She extended her hand toward me, disappointment etched across her face.

"This is Sabrina's coming-of-age celebration!" She shook her head with exaggerated dismay. "Never mind. I should have known you wouldn't take it seriously. You're too busy chasing after men to care about your own sister."

I stood there and watched as she planned out Sabrina's milestone birthday right in front of me, her voice droning on.

"We've already chosen your gift for her—a master's program that includes advanced pre-law courses at USC and elite social networking opportunities."

My mind drifted back seven years to my own eighteenth birthday. What a joke that had been. I wasn't even allowed to host a small gathering at home.

What had Mother said back then? That it was all for my protection because I have precious Rh-negative blood and couldn't risk getting hurt.

I snapped back to the present.

"Fine. How much does it cost?"

Mother slammed her gardening shears onto the stone steps, fury flashing across her face.

"Watch your tone. Sabrina is the sister who loves you most."

I rolled my eyes so hard I practically saw the back of my skull.

"Alright, I get it. How much is this program? I'll transfer you the money."

Mother shrugged. "About two hundred thousand."

What? I couldn't have heard that right. My voice shot up several octaves.

"What kind of study program costs two hundred thousand dollars?"

"This isn't just an expense, Elena. It's a ticket to the upper class." Mother's face flushed with excitement. "If Sabrina gets a recommendation letter from a prestigious professor through this program, her future will be limitless."

I let out a cold laugh.

Funny how no one ever uses those words about me.

"Do you have any idea what two hundred thousand means to me?" I stared at her, searching desperately for even a trace of guilt on her face.

"You're already working, aren't you? It's just two hundred thousand, not the moon and stars."

I took a deep breath, pushing down the surge of feeling threatening to burst from my chest, and spoke slowly, deliberately.

"Mother, two hundred thousand dollars represents every penny I've saved over three years of working. Everything I have."

A flicker of discomfort crossed her face.

"You can always earn more money, but Sabrina only gets one eighteenth birthday. Besides, you know you owe her."

I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste copper, refusing to let the moisture pooling in my eyes spill over.

Yes, since that day when I was five, I've been destined to owe Sabrina for the rest of my life—even though I never wanted any of this.

I pulled out my phone and transferred every last cent of my three years' savings to her, then grabbed my car keys and headed for the door without looking back.

Over the roar of the engine, I heard her call out, "Why are you leaving again so soon?"

I didn't answer, just pressed down on the accelerator and drove away from the tree-lined street I knew so well.

My phone wouldn't stop ringing.

After I'd hung up on her five times, it rang again.

I sighed and picked up.

"Elena, why did you leave again? I made your favorite apple pie. Oh, and Sabrina gave you an address—make sure you go. Your leg needs proper treatment or you'll be up all night in pain again."

The apple pie. I have to admit, her apple pie is the best I've ever tasted.

Fine. Maybe she does care in her own way. And that spa center—maybe it actually can help.

I spun the wheel and executed a perfect U-turn.

"I'm on my way to the spa now. Save the pie for me."

Following the address on the note, I found 73 Berlin Street. From inside my car, I could see a cold metal sign hanging by the entrance, flanked by suggestive posters.

God, was this really a spa center?

I got out skeptically and approached. The door stood slightly ajar, yielding easily when I pushed.

A strange smell hit me as I stepped inside—metallic and sharp, something I couldn't quite place.

"Hello? Anyone here? I'm here for a massage."

I glanced around to find the space empty of clients, just a tall man standing behind the counter.

He wore a matte black silk shirt, the open collar revealing the full curve of his chest and a bullet scar cutting horizontally across his collarbone. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows, the fabric pulled taut over muscle in a way that seemed almost deliberate.

I don't know why, but catching sight of him instantly brought back thoughts of the escort I spent that messy night with.

I forced my gaze upward to his face in what I hoped was a polite manner—a face sculpted by time and violence into something sharp as a blade.

Gray-blue eyes stared back at me as if they could see straight through to my core.

Was this man really just a masseur?

Everything about him radiated danger.