Chapter 43: A Mark Without a Heart

Chapter 43: Chapter 43: A Mark Without a Heart "Mark me," Victoria whispered against his ear, trembling and desperate. "Please, Zayn. Make me yours. Like you always promised." Zayn clenched his jaw. Guilt washed over him with those hollow promises. No, not hollow, they were real once, but they were born out of fake bonds he believed he had with Victoria. Mate marks were not meant to be done twice. It wasn’t unheard of, nor was it unprecedented. But it was greatly frowned upon with good reason. He had marked Lily in a desperate attempt to save her life. But deep down, he could not ignore the emotions that it had stirred. The mark was sacred. An unbreakable bond. It wasn’t supposed to feel this hollow or dirty. Victoria knew this too. She knew it and she was weaponizing it against him. The room hung heavy with the scent of Victoria’s desperation. Zayn sat stiffly on the chair, his broad shoulders tense beneath her weight. She straddled him boldly, her hands sliding along his chest, her hips grinding down against the growing hardness between his legs. She wanted him badly, and the only way she knew how to capture him was with her own body. Her desire for him was a fierce, all-consuming need that eclipsed all other thoughts and considerations. In her mind, the most potent and perhaps the only effective means of ensnaring his attention, of forging a connection, would be to bind him to her physically. She believed that offering herself, her body, was the key to capturing his heart, or at the very least, his unwavering focus. If she couldn’t capture his heart yet, she aimed to conquer his body first. Her strategy, born from her need and desire, was to turn the physical attraction into a lasting bond. But he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t kissed her back. He was resisting, and it drove her mad. She felt desperate. She was losing him. Yet his body, his traitorous, exhausted, overwhelmed body, responded. Victoria’s hand slipped between them, her expert fingers quickly found the hard length pressing against his pants. She cupped him through the fabric first, squeezing gently, stroking him in slow, maddening motions. "I belong to you," she breathed, her mouth brushing his jawline, down his neck. "Always have, always will." Zayn shut his eyes for a moment. His breathing grew heavier. His body betrayed him, thickening in her grasp, aching for release he didn’t truly want. "She’s inexperienced... she doesn’t know you like I do," Victoria hissed, and her words were like venom softening into a purr. "She wasn’t there. She didn’t see you bleed. Didn’t hear you scream in the dark." Her fingers slid into his pants now, skin meeting skin, stroking his cock in firm, steady pumps. He groaned low in his throat, not from pleasure, but from conflict, from shame. He knew she was using him, manipulating him, but guilt was not letting him react any other way. Her hand, now fully grabbing him, began a deliberate rhythm, stroking his cock with firm, steady pumps that spoke of experience and intent. A louder groan rumbled in his throat, again a sound that held no trace of pure pleasure. Instead, it was a manifestation of the confusing storm within him. Every deliberate stroke of her hand was a clear reminder of his powerlessness, his unwilling participation in a scene orchestrated by her. But she was good, her body snaking a weapon he had used several times before. She had learned how to use him. She pressed herself against him so perfectly that he was falling deeper into her temptation. Her hand knew exactly how to manipulate his cock and he was not stopping her. He was very aware of the game she was playing, the strings she was expertly pulling. He recognized the manipulation, the calculated use of his desires against him. Yet, a heavy blanket of guilt, made from past actions and unspoken obligations, suffocated any impulse to resist, to pull away. His body remained a reluctant participant, trapped in a game made by her will and his own paralyzing sense of culpability. "She’s the daughter of your enemy," Victoria continued, grinding herself down harder against him, the thin fabric of her dress riding up her thighs. "You can fuck her, you can use her, but you’ll never trust her. She will never love you. You will never love her. Not like you love me." He gritted his teeth. That word. Love. He didn’t love her. Still, his hips lifted slightly, instinctively seeking more friction. Victoria moaned softly in triumph and pressed her forehead to his again. "I was there," she whispered fiercely. "I survived it all with you. I bore every scar alongside you. You’re mine. I’m yours. Please, Zayn... Mark me." Her free hand slipped under her own dress, rubbing herself quickly, hurriedly, her scent thickening in the room, sweet and musky with desperate need. She was so wet for him, wet and greedy for him. Zayn opened his eyes. He didn’t see Victoria, he saw chains, blood. The memory of cold stone floors beneath his knees. Disorientation rocked him. The visceral memory resurfaced with brutal clarity, the chilling dampness seeping into his bones, a stark reminder of his helplessness and despair. There was anger rising in him, at what she was doing to him, and how. He hated himself more each second he allowed Victoria to use him, to manipulate him. He turned his head, avoiding her mouth when she tried to kiss him. She whimpered, frustrated, but kept stroking him, faster now. For him, it was becoming too much, and he had to do something about it. He could give in, or do something else. She wanted him to mark her, but he knew it would be the end of it all if he fell for that. Instead, he pressed his mouth to the side of her neck, a sharp, unfeeling nip just below her ear. No tenderness. No love. Victoria gasped, hips jerking, as she pulled his cock free from his trousers, positioning him between her folds. She rubbed herself against him, wet and frantic, dragging her slick core along his shaft, gasping every time the swollen tip grazed her clit. It was maddening, and she knew it; she was pushing him to his limits, knowing he was about to fall. And she wanted him to fall completely in her hands. "Mark me, Zayn," she begged again, tears welling in her eyes. "Please." He growled low in his chest, a broken sound, full of everything he couldn’t say. Full of his own desperation, conflicts, and pain. She didn’t stop. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling his head back slightly. She kissed his jaw, his throat, desperate little kisses that tasted of salt and want and need. He couldn’t think anymore. Buried in her scent, her heat, his body moved. He licked the spot just beneath her pulse point slowly, almost reverently, as if trying to force himself to believe it meant something. Victoria sobbed out a gasp of relief, clinging to him tighter, riding his cock harder against her folds without fully taking him inside. "Yes," she cried. "Yes, now!" And then he did it. His canines grasped the flesh of her neck, grasping, teasing, and then he bit her. Victoria moaned. Zayn didn’t feel triumphant. He felt a hollow pit open in his chest. Her body trembled violently on top of him, her hands clawing at his shoulders, nails raking his skin. She rubbed herself furiously against his cock as she felt what she thought it was him marking her, writhing until a broken cry left her lips, a small, desperate orgasm ripping through her. He barely noticed. When he pulled back, blood stained his mouth. His cock still throbbed against her, painfully hard but without releasing. He was close, but it was as if his body was telling him she was not the one his body craved. Victoria collapsed against him, clinging to him, panting heavily, licking his skin, smiling, pleased and satisfied. Soon enough, she started to move again, pressing herself more into him, noticing his hardness and his heat. Her wetness dripped into him, the scent of heat wrapping around him and driving him mad. "You’re mine now," she whispered brokenly. "Let me please you," she moaned into his ear and straddled him more, ready to take him in. Zayn said nothing. He only closed his eyes, tasting blood on his tongue, and wondered when exactly he had lost the last piece of his soul.